THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 

PROFESSOR 

PAUL  BIGELOW  SCHAEFFER 


1893-I967 


Ichi^  /yfwwa^ 


CONFESSIONS    OF 

AN    OPERA    SINGER 
BY  KATHLEEN  HOWARD 


NEW  YORK 


/ICMXVUl 


7VLFRED   A.   KNOPF 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
KATHLEEN  HOWARD  BAIRD 

Published  September  1918 


Music  Library 


GIFT 


FEIKTKP    IN    THE    TTNtTED    STATES    Or    AMERICA 


To 
Marjorie 


QSG 


FOREWORD 

So  many  fantastic  tales  have  come  to  us  of  stu- 
dents' life  abroad,  of  their  temptations,  trials, 
finances,  successes  and  failures,  that  I  have  attempted 
to  give  here  the  true  story  of  the  preparation  for  an 
operatic  career,  and  its  fruition.  My  road  leads  from 
New  York  to  Paris,  to  Germany  and  thence  to  Lon- 
don, and  back  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  My 
operatic  experiences  in  Germany  are  inalienably  as- 
sociated with  the  lives  of  the  people,  particularly  with 
the  German  officer  class,  viewed  publicly  and  pri- 
vately; in  fact  in  the  town  where  I  was  first  engaged, 
Metz,  I  found  they  were  as  vital  a  part  of  the  Opera 
house  life  as  the  singers  themselves.  Their  arrogance 
tainted  the  town  life  as  well,  and  here  I  first  became 
acquainted  with  the  pitiful  attempt  at  swagger  and 
brilliancy  which  often  covered  a  state  of  grinding 
poverty,  or  the  thwarted  natural  domestic  instincts 
which  were  ruthlessly  sacrificed  to  the  "uniform" — 
the  all-desirable  entree  to  society,  for  which  no  price 
was  too  high  to  pay.  I  hope  this  book  will  be  of 
interest  not  only  to  those  whose  goal  is  the  operatic 


FOREWORD 


or  concert  stage,  but  to  those  to  whom  "human  docu- 
ments" appeal.  It  is  a  story  of  real  people,  real 
obstacles  overcome,  and  contains  much  intimate  talk 
of  back-stage  life  in  opera  houses. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I      THE  WAY  IT  ALL  HAPPENED  13 

II      A  STRUGGLE  AND  A  SOLUTION  21 

III      PARIS  AT  LAST  30 

rV      PENSION  PERSONALITIES'  39 

V      OPERATIC   FRANCE    VERSUS   OPERATIC    GERMANY  50 

VI      PREPARING  ROLES  IN  BERLIN  59 

VII      MY  FIRST  OPERATIC  CONTRACT  SIGNED  67 

VIII      MY  ONE  LONE  IMPROPOSITION  76 

IX      THE    MAKINGS    OF    A    SMALL    MUNICIPAL  OPERA 

HOUSE  85 

X      MY  DEBUT  AND  BREAKING  INTO  HARNESS  100 

XI      SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS  110 

XII      MISPLACED     MOISTURE     AND     THE     STORY  OF     A 

COURT-LADY  123 

XIII  HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX  139 

XIV  DISCOURAGEMENTS      THAT      LED      TO      A  COURT 

THEATRE  153 

XV      SALARIES  AND  A  TENOR'S  GENIUS  164 

XVI      THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE  172 
XVII     THE  NON-MILITARY  SIDE  OF  A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S 

LIFE  184 

XVm     GEESE  AND  GUESTS  199 

XrX     RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED  206 

XX      THE  grandmothers'  BALLET  220 

XXI     stage  fashions  and  the  glory  OF  COLOUR  230 

XXII      ROYAL  HUMOUR  242 

XXIII      COVENT  garden  AND — AMERICA  257 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Kathleen  Howard  Frontispiece 

I    Carmen  as  I  Used  to  Dress  It  76 

II     Carmen  as  I  Now  Dress  It  84 

I    Amneris  as  I  Used  to  Dress  It  126 

II    Amneris  as  I  Now  Dress  It  134 

I    Dalila  as  I  Used  to  Dress  It  172 

II    Dalila  as  I  Now  Dress  It  180 

Caruso's  Caricature  of  Kathleen  Howard  260 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    WAY   IT    ALL   HAPPENED 

I  WAS  very  young  and  I  was  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried. We  had  just  lost  our  money  in  rather 
dramatic  fashion,  and  we  were  all  doing  what 
we  could  to  supply  the  sudden  deficit.  My  sister  be- 
gan to  prepare  herself  to  be  a  teacher,  my  brother  left 
his  boarding  school  and  came  home  to  go  into  a 
friend's  office,  and  I — well,  I  accepted  the  hand  and 
heart  of  the  young  man  in  our  set  with  whom  I  had 
had  most  pleasure  in  dancing  in  winter  and  sailing 
in  summer. 

My  heart  didn't  lose  a  beat  and  turn  over  when  I 
saw  him  coming  as  did  those  of  the  heroines  in  Marion 
Crawford's  novels,  but  we  were  the  best  friends  in 
the  world,  and  I  thought  that  anything  else  must  be 
a  literary  exaggeration,  put  in  to  make  the  story  more 
exciting;  just  as  the  heroine's  eyelashes  were  usually 
exaggerated  to  the  abnormal  length  of  an  inch  to 
make  her  more  beautiful,  though  none  of  the  girls 
I  knew  had  them  like  that. 

He  was  a  young  business  man,  just  starting  as 
—13— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

assistant  to  his  father  whose  business  was  an  old  es- 
tablished, comfortable  sort  of  family  affair,  big 
enough  to  supply,  in  time,  an  extra  income  for  an 
unambitious  young  couple  like  ourselves.  Every  one 
congratulated  us  heartily,  and  I  began  to  embroider 
towels  and  hem  table  napkins  and  to  dream  about  pat- 
terns of  flat  silver. 

The  whole  arrangement  was  satisfactory  to  the  poini 
of  banality,  and  I  might  be  quite  an  old  married 
woman  by  this  time,  but — I  had  a  voice. 

Nine-tenths  of  me,  at  this  age,  were  the  normal,  ra- 
tional characteristics  of  a  well-brought  up,  bright, 
good  looking  girl.  But  the  last  tenth  was  an  un- 
known quantity,  a  great  big  powerful  something  which 
I  vaguely  felt,  even  then,  to  be  the  master  of  all  the 
other  tenths,  a  force  which  was  capable  of  having 
its  own  way  with  the  rest  of  me  if  I  should  ever  give 
it  a  chance.  My  voice,  the  agent  of  this  vague  power, 
had  developed  rather  late.  It  is  true  that  our  whole 
childhood  had  been  coloured  by  music,  that  we  read 
notes  before  we  could  read  letters,  and  that  music 
was  our  earliest  and  most  natural  mode  of  expression. 

My  father's  greatest  joy  in  life  was  music,  and  he 
always  played  imaginative  musical  games  with  us  in 
the  evenings.  The  earliest  one  I  remember  was  when 
we  were  tiny  tots.  He  used  to  improvise  on  the  small 
organ  we  had  and  ask  us  questions  which  we  had  to 
—14— 


THE  WAY  IT  ALL  HAPPENED 


answer,  singing  to  his  accompaniment.     I  was  Ad- 
miral Seymour  and  Marjorie  was  General  Wolsey. 
I  remember  his  singing, 

"And  how  would  you  get  your  ships  along,  Admiral, 
If  your  sails  and  oars  were  shot  overboard?" 

I  sang  solemnly, 

"I'd  shubble  them  along  with  shubbles." 

Afterwards  when  I  began  to  sing  from  printed  music 
with  him  I  remember  saying  one  evening  as  he  was 
playing  hymns  and  unfamiliar  English  ballads  for 
me  to  sing, 

"Papa,  please  let  me  look  at  the  music  and  follow 
the  notes  up  and  down." 

I  really  began  reading  music  at  four  years  old. 
We  played  and  sang  all  our  childhood.  When  Mar- 
jorie was  seven  and  I  was  six  we  sang  Even-song  at 
the  village  church,  as  the  members  of  the  regular  choir 
were  ill  or  absent.  Marjorie  had  a  heavenly  child- 
ish soprano  and  I  a  heavy  nondescript  voice.  But  I 
always  pleased  my  father  by  singing  real  "second 
voice"  and  not  just  following  the  soprano  in  thirds. 

He  used  to  give  us  a  note,  and  we  then  had  to  run 

round  our  rather  large  house  humming  it.     It  was 

the  deepest  disgrace  we  ever  knew  if  we  had  sharped 

or  flatted  when  we  got  back  to  the  starting  point.     He 

—15— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

taught  us  musical  terms  by  making  us  dance  to  differ- 
ent rhythms  he  played,  and  would  call  out  "Allegro," 
"Vivace,"  "Adagio,"  "Molto  allegro,"  "Legato,"  and 
so  forth,  to  which  we  had  to  change  instantly.  When- 
ever any  one  came  to  the  house,  we  played  and  sang 
for  them,  and  though  it  might  have  been  rather  awful 
for  the  visitors  it  was  very  good  for  us  to  get  used  to 
an  audience. 

He  used  to  arrange  fairy  tales  like  "Bluebeard"  in 
doggerel  verses  and  write  accompaniments  to  them, 
and  we  then  learned  them  by  heart  and  rehearsed 
them,  and  some  grand  night  played  them  for  all  the 
neighbours.  I  remember  the  way  we  showed  Blue- 
beard's chamber  where  the  heads  of  his  wives  were 
kept.  We  hung  a  sheet  on  the  wall  and  Marjorie  and 
I  stood  in  front  of  it,  with  pale  faces,  closed  eyes 
and  open  mouths,  and  our  long  hair  pinned  up  high 
above  our  heads  on  the  sheet.  Another  sheet  was 
then  stretched  across  us,  just  below  our  chins,  and  the 
effect  was  rather  ghastly  in  a  dim  light.  I  remember 
we  sang  at  the  last: 

"Oh,  Bluebeard,  oh,  Bluebeard, 
Frustrated,  checkmated. 
Dissipated,  agitated. 
Castigated,  lacerated, 
Bluebeard!  " 

When  school  was  over  we  always  gave  a  dramatic 
—16— 


THE  WAY  IT  ALL  HAPPENED 


performance;  if  the  weather  was  fine  enough  we  held 
them  in  the  big  garden  that  was  our  childhood's  play- 
ground. We  dressed  behind  a  huge  flowering-cur- 
rant bush,  and  I  can  remember  a  performance  of  an 
act  of  "Twelfth  Night,"  in  which  I,  aged  about  seven, 
was  Malvolio,  Lai,  my  brother,  Maria,  and  Marjorie, 
Olivia. 

I  had  always  been  able  to  sing,  but  the  sudden 
growth  of  my  voice  was  a  surprise.  One  day,  in 
school,  we  were  asked  to  write  a  composition  on  our 
favourite  wish.  All  the  other  girls  said  they  wished 
for  curly  hair,  for  pretty  dresses,  for  as  m.uch  candy 
as  they  could  eat,  for  any  other  frivolous  thing  that 
came  into  their  heads.  But  I  took  it  seriously  and 
told  my  dearest  wish  in  all  the  word — a  great  voice, 
a  voice  with  which  I  could  make  audiences  cry  or 
laugh  at  my  will.  And,  strangely  enough,  from  that 
time  my  girlish  voice  began  to  grow  stronger  and 
stronger,  until  I  could  proudly  make  more  noise  with 
it  than  any  other  girl  in  school.  Then  it  grew  louder 
and  higher,  until  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  such 
a  big  possession  any  longer,  and  the  family  decreed 
that  I  must  have  singing  lessons. 

I  took  lessons  accordingly  from  an  excellent  local 
teacher,  practised  scales  and  exercises  and  later  stud- 
ied the  classic  songs  and  arias  as  seriously  as  I  could, 
but  it  was  so  fatally  easy  to  be  interrupted.     We  were 
—17— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

all  out  of  school  for  the  first  time  and  enjoying  our 
freedom.  It  was  so  much  more  chic  to  go  down  to 
Huyler's  in  the  mornings,  when  the  girls  only  a  year 
younger  were  hard  at  their  lessons,  than  in  the  after- 
noon when  the  whole  girl  world  was  at  liberty.  I 
would  just  begin  a  morning's  work  when  some  one 
would  call  me  on  the  telephone  to  go  to  the  dress- 
maker's with  her,  or  help  arrange  the  flowers  for  a 
dinner  party.  I  loved  both  flowers  and  dresses,  and 
it  was  easy  to  think,  "Oh!  I'll  practise  this  afternoon!" 
and  fly  off"  to  be  gone  all  day.  In  the  evening  there 
was  my  fiance  who  had  to  tell  me  all  the  absorbing 
details  of  his  office,  or  there  was  a  dance,  or  a  theatre 
party,  and  I  took  everything  that  came  my  way  and 
enjoyed  it  all  equally.  But  all  the  time  my  voice 
was  really  first  in  my  thoughts,  and  I  longed  to  study 
seriously  and  intensely,  to  arrange  my  whole  life  for 
it  and  its  proper  development. 

The  family,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  more  interested 
in  my  trousseau  than  in  anything  else.  They  had 
scraped  together  five  hundred  dollars,  and  I  was  to 
have  it  all,  incredible  as  it  sounded,  to  buy  clothes 
with.  Subconsciously  all  day,  and  compellingly  in 
bed  at  night,  the  thought  of  what  I  could  do  for  my 
voice  with  that  five  hundred  dollars  was  with  me.  I 
saw  myself  only  as  a  singer,  and  knew  that  I  could 
never  be  happy  unless  I  were  allowed  first  to  get  my 
—18— 


THE  WAY  IT  ALL  HAPPENED 

instrument  in  thorough  working  order  and  then  to 
use  it.  The  phrases,  "working  out  your  own  salva- 
tion," "fulfilling  your  own  destiny,"  "the  necessity 
of  self -development,"  and  all  those  other  nicely  turned 
expressions  which  most  students  have  at  their  tongues' 
end,  were  unknown  to  me.  I  just  felt,  inarticulately. 
But  my  feeling  was  strong  enough  to  carry  me  into 
action,  the  step  which  phrasemakers,  who  find  com- 
plete satisfaction  in  their  phrases,  often  omit. 

New  York  was  my  Mecca.  I  talked  it  all  over  with 
my  fiance,  told  him  what  a  year  there  would  do  for 
me,  making  it  clear  that  I  expected  to  sing  profes- 
sionally after  our  marriage.  He  agreed  to  every- 
thing and  promised  that  I  should  do  as  I  wished.  His 
possible  objection  disposed  of,  only  the  financial  diffi- 
culty remained,  looming  large  before  me.  Deeply 
and  more  deeply  I  was  convinced  in  my  own  mind  that 
I  might  marry  in  old  clothes,  but  not  with  my  voice 
untrained.  I  finally  summoned  courage  to  propose 
to  my  family  that  I  should  use  the  precious  five  hun- 
dred for  a  year's  study  in  New  York  instead  of  a 
trousseau.  Miraculous  to  relate  they  agreed,  and  I 
was  boundlessly  happy  and  saw  my  path  golden  ahead 
of  me. 

We  all  spoke  and  thought  of  my  future  as  that  of 
a  concert  singer.  My  intention  of  marrying  seemed 
to  make  anything  else  out  of  the  question.  Indeed, 
—19— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

at  that  time,  the  Metropolitan  in  New  York  formed 
the  only  oasis  in  the  operatic  desert  of  America. 
There  were  spasmodic  attempts  at  travelling  compan- 
ies in  English,  but  no  other  sign  of  a  permanent  in- 
stitution throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
country.  I  must  confess,  however,  that  the  operatic 
bee  buzzed  considerably  at  times  in  the  less  conspicu- 
ous portions  of  my  bonnet.  One  or  two  musicians 
of  standing,  who  heard  me  sing,  pronounced  mine 
"an  operatic  voice,"  and  strange  longings  stirred 
inside  me  when  I  saw  the  Metropolitan  singers  on 
the  boards. 


—20— 


CHAPTER  II 

A  STRUGGLE  AND  A  SOLUTION 

THAT  winter  in  New  York  was  a  revealing  ex- 
perience to  me  in  many  ways.  Numbers  of 
things  assumed  different  values  in  my  estima- 
tion. One  of  the  first  new  things  I  learned  was  the 
comparative  insignificance  of  $500  as  a  provision  for 
a  year's  expenses.  I  lived  at  one  of  those  boarding 
houses  which  are  called  both  "reasonable"  and  re- 
spectable, but  are  vastly  inferior  in  both  comfort  and 
society  to  the  European  pension  which  costs  a  good 
deal  less.  I  had  lessons  in  singing,  diction  and 
French,  all  of  which  counted  up  to  a  great  many 
dollars  a  week.  My  five  hundred  began  to  shrink  at 
an  alarming  rate,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  if  a  friend  had  not  advised  me  to  try  for 
a  "church  position,"  that  invaluable  means  of  adding 
to  the  resources  of  a  student,  which  is  possible  only 
in  America.  Besides  offering  a  splendid  chance  of 
financial  assistance,  the  church  position  system  is  an 
infallible  test  of  the  money  value  of  one's  voice. 
How  many  girls  have  I  known  in  Europe  embarking 
—21— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

upon  tlie  expensive  and  dreadfully  laborious  prepara- 
tion for  an  operatic  career,  without  possessing  a  single 
one  of  the  qualifications  necessary  to  success,  without 
even  an  adequate,  to  say  nothing  of  an  unusual,  voice! 
Their  singing  of  "Because  I  love  you!"  has  been  the 
admiration  of  their  local  circle,  even  less  musical 
than  themselves,  and  this  little  success  has  been  enough 
to  start  them  on  a  career,  doomed  to  certain  failure. 
If  they  had  only  tried  for  church  positions  in  a  l^rge 
city  in  America,  had  competed  in  the  open  market 
of  their  own  country,  they  would  have  been  saved  a 
heartbreak  and  much  good  money  besides. 

I  won  a  $1000  position  almost  at  once,  over  the 
heads  of  many  older  and  more  experienced  competi- 
tors, on  the  merits  of  my  voice  alone.  The  salary 
was  my  financial  salvation,  but,  besides  this,  my  gen- 
eral musicianship  was  much  improved  by  the  practice 
in  sight-reading  and  ensemble  singing.  I  grew  used 
to  facing  an  audience,  and  found  a  chance  to  put 
into  use  what  I  learned  in  my  singing  lessons. 
Blessed  be  the  quartet  choir  of  America,  say  I;  an 
invaluable  institution  for  the  musical  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  our  country. 

The  church  in  which  I  sang  had  many  wealthy  mem- 
bers, and  the  dress-parade  on  Sundays  used  to  be 
quite  a  sight.     Our  place,  as  choir,  was  directly  fac- 
ing the  congregation,  in  a  little  gallery,  so  that  our 
—22— 


A  STRUGGLE  AND  A  SOLUTION 

hats  and  dresses  were  subjected  to  very  searching 
scrutiny.  The  furnishing  of  suitable  garments  for 
such  an  exalted  position  became  quite  a  problem. 
The  soprano  was  a  well-known  singer,  who,  in  addi- 
tion to  a  good  salary,  had  many  concert  and  oratorio 
engagements;  and  her  furs  and  ostrich  feathers  were 
my  despair.  I  would  sit  up  half  the  night  to  cover 
a  last-year's  straw  hat  with  velvet.  I  made  an  end- 
less succession  of  smart  blouses  which,  as  we  were 
hidden  below  the  waist  by  the  railing,  I  wore  widi 
the  same  "utility"  black  broadcloth  skirt.  I  con- 
structed the  most  original  collars  and  jabots  for  them 
out  of  odds  and  ends. 

I  remember  one  was  made  of  a  packet  of  silver 
spangles  sewn  in  rows  overlapping  each  other  like  fish 
scales.  One  of  my  engagement  presents  had  been  a 
silver  mesh  bag,  and  when  I  wore  it  at  my  belt,  and 
the  collar  round  my  neck,  the  choir  used  to  call  me 
"Mrs.  Lohengrin."  As  we  took  off  our  outdoor  wraps 
to  sing,  my  smartness  in  the  gallery  was  assured,  but 
the  cleverest  manager  can't  contrive  at  home  a  sub- 
stitute for  furs,  and  the  soprano  had  chinchilla!  I 
was  years  younger  than  the  others  and  they  were  very 
sweet  to  me. 

Living  at  my  boarding  house  was  a  young  doctor, 
who  also  would  have  liked  to  be  nice  to  me.  But 
my  exaggerated  conscientiousness  would  not  allow  me 
—23— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

to  have  anything  to  do  with  one  man  while  I  was 
engaged  to  another,  and  I  refused  all  his  invitations 
to  the  theatre  and  to  Saturday  afternoon  excursions. 
My  one  indulgence  was  in  standing-room  tickets  for 
the  Metropolitan.  What  a  boon  to  girls  in  my  situa- 
tion would  be  the  inexpensive  municipal  opera  and 
endowed  theatres  of  Germany  with  their  system  of 
Schule  Vorstellungen  (students'  performances)  of 
standard  plays  and  operas  at  prices  that  put  a  com- 
fortable seat  within  the  means  of  even  the  most  hum- 
ble purse!  This  was  the  lack  the  Century  Opera 
would  have  supplied. 

My  church  engagement  was  to  come  to  an  end  May 
first.  The  thought  of  turning  my  back  on  the  start 
I  had  made  depressed  me  fearfully.  I  had  given 
my  word  to  marry  and  did  not  think  of  wavering. 
But  the  letters  of  my  fiance  and  his  rare  visits  to  New 
York  had  not  helped  us  to  understand  each  other 
better.  Many  hours  I  walked  the  floor  longing  for 
advice,  and  wrestling  with  myself.  I  said  to  my 
sister,  "I  have  my  foot  on  the  first  rung  of  the  ladder 
and  now  I  must  take  it  off."  It  all  seems  so  simple 
now.  Almost  any  other  girl  would  have  broken  her 
engagement  without  much  thought.  But  I  had  not 
been  brought  up  that  way,  and  so  I  had  hours  and 
days  of  misery. 

The  one  thought  that  comforted  me  was  that  I  could 
—24— 


A  STRUGGLE  AND  A  SOLUTION 

go  on  at  any  rate  as  well  as  it  was  possible  in  my  own 
town,  and  though  it  would  be  much  harder  to  make 
a  career  from  there,  it  could  be  done  with  the  co- 
operation of  my  husband.  It  was  hard  for  me  to 
talk  in  those  days,  but  one  day  driving  down  Fifth 
Avenue  in  a  hansom,  a  rare  treat,  I  remember  my  feel- 
ings were  too  much  for  me,  and  I  burst  through  my 
repression  and  told  him  how  I  must  develop  that  side 
of  me,  and  he  said,  "And  I'll  help  you,  little  girl; 
you  can  count  on  me."  I  believed  him  of  course. 
But  while  I  was  dreadfully  serious,  he,  as  I  learned 
later,  ranked  my  singing  with  the  china-painting  and 
fancy-work  of  his  relations,  as  a  sort  of  harmless 
pastime,  to  occupy  my  leisure  moments.  The  truth 
was,  of  course,  that,  as  often  happens,  he  had  en- 
tirely mistaken  my  character,  had  made  his  ideal 
woman  out  of  his  head,  given  her  my  outward  ap- 
pearance, and  fallen  in  love  witli  her.  The  real  "me" 
was  a  disconcerting  stranger,  of  whom  he  caught  only 
occasional  glimpses. 

About  the  first  of  May,  I  returned  home.  They 
were  all  at  the  station  to  meet  me;  my  fiance  had 
even  broken  into  his  office  hours  to  be  there  too.  We 
had  seen  each  other  seldom  during  my  absence  from 
home,  for  New  York  was  a  long  way  oflF,  and  he 
was  saving  his  pennies  religiously  for  the  great  event. 
When  we  married,  our  income  would  be  a  tight  fit 
—25— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

in  any  case,  and  I  could  not  help  rejoicing  that  my 
singing  might  add  considerably  to  it.  There  were 
no  $1000  church  positions  in  our  town,  but  one  or 
two  of  the  churches  paid  respectable  salaries  to  their 
quartets,  and  I  hoped  soon  to  begin  to  make  a  concert 
career. 

For  a  little  while  after  my  return  I  was  very  happy. 
Every  one  was  so  nice  to  me  and  seemed  to  think  I 
had  done  remarkable  things  already.  Our  church 
asked  me  to  sing  a  solo  the  Sunday  when  the  bishop 
was  expected,  and  I  held  a  sort  of  reception  afterwards 
and  heard  many  pleasant  things  about  my  progress. 
After  my  hard  work  and  self-denial,  the  rest,  tlie 
gentle  flattery,  and  the  comfort  of  home  surroundings 
were  very  welcome. 

Only  with  my  fiance  things  were  not  so  satisfactory. 
Something,  I  did  not  know  what,  was  the  matter; 
but  it  all  culminated  one  evening  in  his  saying  that 
no  married  woman  should  follow  a  profession,  that 
she  should  find  "occupation  enough  in  her  own  home." 
This  was  really  a  great  shock  to  me,  as  he  had  prom- 
ised me  his  support  in  my  work  so  often.  Imagine 
my  surprise  after  a  three  years'  engagement,  when 
he  had  his  family  tell  me  just  three  weeks  before 
the  wedding  that  I  was  to  give  up  all  hope  of  singing 
professionally  after  encouraging  me  in  it  during  the 
entire  time.  I  knew  by  then  that  I  could  never  be 
—26— 


A  STRUGGLE  AND  A  SOLUTION 

happy  nor  make  him  happy  if  I  gave  up  all  thought 
of  singing  professionally. 

I  asked  him  very  quietly  if  those  were  his  convic- 
tions, and,  on  his  affirmative  ansvrer,  I  took  oflF  his 
ring,  returned  it  to  him,  and  went  upstairs  without 
one  more  word,  feeling  as  if  I  had  been  awakened 
out  of  a  nightmare,  and  though  still  palpitating  from 
the  shock  was  experiencing  relief  at  finding  it  over. 
In  my  own  room  I  stretched  my  arms  above  my  head 
and  said,  "Free!"  A  marvellous  vista  of  freedom 
opened  to  me  after  the  months  of  strain.  I  could 
hardly  bear  to  go  to  sleep;  it  was  so  wonderful  to 
plan  how  I  could  go  ahead  and  study,  study. 

The  next  morning  I  saw  my  mistake  in  supposing 
the  affair  to  be  over,  for  there  ensued  many  trying 
days  and  floods  of  tears  all  round.  Then  came  the 
solemn  and  awkward  returning  of  all  the  engagement 
cups  and  saucers  and  knicknacks,  to  nearly  our  whole 
circle  of  acquaintance.  My  family  stood  by  me  and 
performed  this  unattractive  task,  while  I  packed  up 
to  return  to  New  York. 

I  had  given  up  my  choir,  and  now  found  it  a  diffi- 
cult matter  to  get  another.  All  the  churches  had 
made  their  arrangements  for  the  year  and  the  best 
I  could  hope  for  was  occasional  substituting  in  case 
one  of  the  altos  was  unable  to  sing.  I  made  the 
round  of  the  agents'  offices.  Some  heard  me  and 
—27— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

were  complimentary,  some  refused  as  their  lists  were 
full.  But  when  I  mentioned  the  word  "engagement," 
I  was  always  met  by  the  rejoinder  "No  experience." 
I  used  to  say  to  them,  "But  how  can  I  ever  get  experi- 
ence if  you  won't  give  me  a  chance?"  They  would 
shrug  and  answer  that  that  wasn't  their  affair. 

It  seemed  a  hopeless  deadlock.  No  one  would 
engage  me  without  experience  and  no  one  would 
give  me  an  opportunity  to  become  experienced.  I 
knew  that  the  one  way  out  of  the  difficulty  was  to  go 
abroad  and  get  experience  there.  I  have  said  that 
the  idea  of  singing  in  opera  had  always  made  a 
strong  appeal  to  me,  and  I  knew  that  I  had  some 
of  the  qualifications  necessary  for  the  stage — a  big 
voice,  good  stage-appearance,  and  ability  to  act  (we 
had  always  acted)  as  well  as  a  great  capacity  for 
hard  work.  But  the  essential  qualification,  without 
which  the  others  were  all  ineffective,  was  the  financial 
support  necessary  to  get*'me  there  and  to  provide 
means  of  studying  and  of  living  adequately  while  I 
prepared  myself  for  opera. 

I  despaired  of  obtaining  this,  but  the  way  was  sud- 
denly opened  for  me  in  what  seemed  a  miraculous 
manner.  Friends  of  mine  in  the  church,  Frank  Smith 
Jones  and  his  wife,  offered  to  finance  me  through 
my  years  of  preparation  and  for  as  long  afterwards 
as  I  might  peed  their  aid.  These  real  friends  were 
—28— 


A  STRUGGLE  AND  A  SOLUTION 

behind  me  for  years,  and  I  owe  them  more  than  I  could 
ever  repay.  They  made  it  possible  for  me  to  have  my 
sister  with  me,  for  me,  a  rather  delicate  girl,  an  in- 
estimable benefit.  In  the  seventh  heaven  of  joy,  I 
prepared  to  go  to  Paris  to  study  with  Jacques  Bouhy, 
recommended  to  me  by  my  New  York  teacher.  I 
packed  my  few  clothes,  some  songs,  and  a  boundless 
enthusiasm,  and  set  sail. 


—29— 


CHAPTER  III 

PARIS   AT   LAST 

I  CROSSED  on  one  of  the  steady  big  boats  of  the 
Atlantic  Transport  Line.  I  remember  only  one 
passenger,  a  boy  of  even  then  such  personal 
magnetism  that  he  stands  out  in  my  recollection  as 
clearly  as  any  one  I  have  ever  met,  though  he  was 
then  only  a  young  fellow  and  unknown  to  fame.  His 
name  was  Douglas  Fairbanks  and  his  ambition  was  to 
go  on  the  stage.  He  said  as  we  neared  England: 
"  Well,  some  day  we'll  read,  *Conried  of  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House  presents  Miss  Kathleen  Howard,' 
and  'Charles  Frohman  presents  Mr.  Douglas  Fair- 
banks.' "  His  prophecy,  which  I  recall  even  to  tlie 
spot  on  the  boat  where  he  made  it,  and  the  expression 
of  his  eyes  which  matched  mine  at  that  moment,  has 
almost  been  fulfilled. 

I  reached  Paris  in  the  beginning  of  September  with 
"my  instrument"  in  working  order,  with  a  smattering 
of  French,  a  letter  of  credit  for  $1000,  and  a  large 
supply  of  courage.  I  found  my  voice  adequate  to 
all  my  demands  upon  it,  but  the  money  just  half 
—30— 


PARIS  AT  LAST 


enough  (it  was  increased  the  next  year).  As  for  my 
courage,  I  have  had  to  go  on  renewing  that  ever  since, 
until  it  has  become  the  largest  factor  in  my  success. 
Emma  Juch  told  me  once  that  she  always  said  it  was 
not  difficult  to  attain  success  and  make  a  career. 
Perhaps  her  success  was  made  at  a  time  when  the 
competition  was  less  keen,  but  I  at  any  rate  could 
never  agree  with  her. 

I  arrived  in  Paris  early  in  the  morning  and  went 
to  a  small  hotel  in  the  rue  Cambon.  It  quite  thrilled 
me  to  ask  the  chambermaid  for  eau  chaude  instead  of 
"hot  water";  and  I  felt  proud  of  knowing  that  the 
midday  meal  was  called  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette. 
I  remember  that  meal  to  this  day — it  began  with  rad- 
ishes and  butter,  those  inseparable  companions  in 
France,  went  on  to  omelette,  then  cold  meat  and  salad, 
with  small  clingstone  peaches  and  little  white  grapes 
for  dessert.  Red  or  white  wine  was  ^^compris"  and 
the  bread  was  a  yard  long,  cut  half  through  into  sec- 
tions, and  laid  down  the  middle  of  the  table.  It 
was  all  half -miraculous  to  me,  and  afterwards  when 
I  went  out  to  stroll  under  the  arches  of  the  rue  de 
Rivoli  I  thought  myself  in  fairyland.  The  jewelry, 
lingerie  and  photograph  shops  delighted  me,  as  they 
have  innumerable  tourists,  and  the  name  "Redfem" 
over  a  doorway  gave  me  a  thrill.  The  Place  de  la 
Concorde  seemed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  I 
—31— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

had  ever  seen,  an  opinion  which  I  still  hold,  by  the 
way,  and  I  felt  like  a  queen  when  I  called  an  open 
fiacre  and  drove  in  state  toward  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
stopping  to  buy  a  big  bunch  of  red  roses  for  twenty 
cents  from  a  ragged  man  who  ran  shouting  beside 
my  carriage.  In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  opera  and 
wondered  at  the  great  stairway  and  at  the  big  audi- 
torium, and  still  more  at  the  poor  performance  I 
saw  there  but  which  I  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that 
September  is  the  dull  season. 

That  first  day  was  all  thrills.  The  next  was  spent 
in  arranging  hours  for  lessons,  and  collecting  pen- 
sion addresses  from  all  my  acquaintances,  as  I  saw 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  do  my  work  in  a 
hotel.  I  set  bravely  out  on  my  hunt  for  a  dwelling 
place.  Prices  have  increased  considerably  since 
those  days,  for  at  that  time  it  was  possible  to  get 
very  good  board  and  lodging  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Seine  for  five  francs  a  day.  My  professor,  Jacques 
Bouhy,  however,  lived  near  the  Arc  de  Triomphe, 
and  I  wished  to  be  within  walking  distance.  I  toiled 
up  and  down  a  great  many  stairs,  and  peeped  into  a 
great  many  rooms  without  finding  what  I  sought. 
I  could  not  bear  to  wait  a  day  to  begin  working,  and 
was  just  a  bit  discouraged,  when  I  had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  two  girls  from  home,  who  gave  me 
the  address  of  the  pension  where  they  had  stayed. 
—32— 


PARIS  AT  LAST 


I  rushed  off  at  once  to  see  it,  and  found  a  very  nice 
house  of  several  floors,  situated  in  a  cite,  a  sort  of 
garden  behind  the  first  row  of  houses  on  the  street, 
so  that  its  windows  faced  a  view  of  trees  and  flower- 
beds with  circular  gravel  walks  around  them,  instead 
of  cobblestones. 

The  head  of  the  pension  was  an  old  woman  who 
looked  like  a  Bourbon  but  was  really  a  bourgeoise. 
It  was  nearly  noon  when  I  arrived,  but  she  was  still 
in  a  wonderful  dressing  gown  of  purple  and  yellow 
stripes,  with  chaussons,  cloth  slippers,  on  her  feet,  and 
an  elaborate  coiffure  of  dyed  black  hair  above  her 
yellow  old  face.  She  came  to  me  in  the  salon,  a  long 
narrow  room  with  French  windows  framing  tree-tops, 
the  windows  and  doors  all  hung  with  rose-red  velvet 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  in  place  since  the 
First  Empire.  There  were  sofas  of  rose,  and  chairs 
of  the  same  with  black  wooden  rims,  tables  and  man- 
tel-pieces with  thousands  of  things  on  them,  and  an 
old-fashioned  square  piano  in  the  corner.  Madame 
was  most  gracious,  remembered  the  name  of  her 
former  lodgers,  said  they  were  tres  gentilles,  turned 
a  neat  compliment  to  the  American  nation,  and  showed 
me  the  rooms  herself. 

I  chose  a  back  one  of  good  size,  nicely  furnished 
and  hung  with  a  pretty  chintz.     It  had  a  cabinet  de 
toilette,  or  large  cupboard  for  washstand  and  trunks, 
—33— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


opening  off  it,  and  I  was  to  have  it  with  complete 
board,  for  two  hundred  francs  a  month  ($40).  The 
price  was  really  higher,  but  my  arrangement  was 
for  the  winter.  I  was  to  pay  extra  for  light  and  heat. 
The  room  had  an  open  fireplace  with  a  grille  or  fire- 
basket  in  it,  for  which  I  could  buy  boulets,  coaldust 
pressed  into  egg-shaped  balls,  for  three  francs  a 
sack.  Later,  I  could  have  had  a  salamandre,  one  of 
the  excellent  small  stoves  which  fit  into  the  fireplace, 
really  warm  a  room,  and  require  filling  only  once 
in  twenty-four  hours.  But  I  wanted  something  to 
poke,  and  I  had  an  idea  that  Paris  winters  were  not 
very  formidable.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  anything  more 
penetrating  than  their  damp  sunless  cold  it  is  im- 
possible to  imagine. 

For  light,  there  was  a  huge  lamp  for  which  I  could 
buy  luciline,  a  kind  of  highly  refined  kerosene  which 
has  no  odour  and  bums  well.  I  made  my  bath  ar- 
rangements with  Jean,  Madame's  old  servant,  who 
with  his  wife,  Eugenie,  was  the  real  head  of  the  es- 
tablishment. I  had  bought  a  collapsible  rubber  tub, 
and  Jean  was  to  bring  me  a  big  can  of  hot  water  every 
morning.  I  found  that  I  had  to  tip  occasionally  or 
the  water  became  as  cool  as  Jean's  manners. 
Madame  showed  me  her  dining  room,  and  told  me 
with  pride  that  her  cuisine  was  of  an  excellence  re- 
nowned. I  went  to  fetch  my  trunks  and  hire  a  piano, 
—3^ 


PARIS  AT  LAST 


glad  that  my  long  search  was  over.  The  piano  was 
a  small  upright,  a  tin  pan  for  tone,  as  are  all  Parisian 
pianos  en  location,  and  it  was  to  cost  me  ten  francs  a 
month,  with  eight  francs  for  carting.  They  are  more 
expensive  now.  When  it  was  installed,  my  Lares  and 
Penates  on  top  of  it,  and  my  music  on  a  stool  beside 
it,  I  felt  that  my  feet  were  firmly  planted  on  the  lad- 
der leading  to  success. 

Then  I  began  to  work.  And  how  I  did  work  that 
winter!  I  had  two  singing  lessons  a  week,  and  a 
session  with  the  opera  class  lasting  three  hours  in 
which  we  went  through  the  dramatic  action  of  our 
roles.  I  slaved  at  my  repertoire  working  three  hours 
a  week  with  a  coach,  and  spending  hours  and  hours 
a  day  learning  by  heart  at  home.  Of  course  I  began 
with  the  very  biggest  roles — we  all  do.  The  per- 
sonalities of  Amneris,  Carmen,  Dalila,  Azucena  in 
turn,  all  in  their  French  version  of  course,  occupied 
my  mind  waking  and  sleeping. 

Jacques  Bouhy  was  always  kind,  grave  and  courte- 
ous with  me.  The  thought  of  his  having  created 
Escamillo  and  his  real  knowledge  of  French  tradi- 
tions thrilled  me.  He  lent  me  his  copy  of  "Sam- 
son et  Dalila"  from  which  to  copy  the  French  words. 
It  had  an  inscription  from  Saint-Saens  "A  M.  Bouhy, 
grand  pretre  et  grand  artiste."  He  created  the  role 
of  the  Grand  Priest. 

—35— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

The  only  time  I  ever  saw  him  upset  was  one  day- 
after  the  Opera  class.  We  all  thought  him  safely  out 
riding  as  he  always  was  on  Mondays.  My  letter, 
written  at  that  time  to  my  mother,  says: 

"This  morning  in  the  opera  class  we  had  rather  an 
unpleasant  time.  Little  N.,  with  the  beautiful  tenor 
voice,  has  learned  in  one  week  the  first  half  of  the 
Samson  duet  for  me.  He  has  had  to  learn  it  from  a 
score  which  has  only  his  voice  part  written  in  it. 
He  is  frightfully  down  on  his  luck  and  with  the 
gorgeous  voice  and  speaking  French  can't  get  any- 
thing to  do,  and  has  no  money,  not  a  cent  to  his  name. 
We  had  done  that,  some  one  else  had  sung,  and  hav- 
ing ten  minutes  left,  Valdejo  told  N.  to  sing  again  if  he 
would.  He  was  tired,  but  jumped  up  and  began  the 
first  part  of  "Faust."  He  kept  forgetting  it.  Sud- 
denly the  door  opened  and  in  walked  Bouhy  as  white 
as  a  sheet.  He  commanded  N.  to  stop  singing  and 
to  learn  his  things  before  coming  again  to  the  class. 
Said,  why  did  he  sing  like  a  baritone  when  he  was  a 
tenor,  mocked  him,  told  him  he  was  ashamed  to  have 
such  sounds  made  chez  lui,  that  he  had  been  a  year 
on  "Faust."  What  example  was  he  to  the  others? 
Every  one  else  had  always  worked  seriously.  He 
stormed  for  five  long  minutes,  N.  standing  quite  still, 
with  his  brown  dog's  eyes  fixed  on  him — then  he  left 
the  room.  It  was  frightfully  uncomfortable  for  us 
—36— 


PARIS  AT  LAST 


too.  I  am  sure  I  have  done  just  such  rotten  work  so 
it  may  be  my  turn  next.  Of  course  Bouhy  was  right. 
N.  has  been  there  a  year  and  ought  to  know  it;  but 
he  is  just  tired  out,  and  never  sleeps  he  says.  They 
say  Bouhy  is  beginning  to  show  his  age.  This  week 
he  bounced  his  cook  whom  he  has  had  for  years." 

I  had  two  French  lessons  a  week,  and  should  have 
had  at  least  one  diction  lesson  besides,  but  for  an 
invaluable  course  which  I  had  taken  in  New  York  with 
the  Yersin  sisters.  These  lessons  were  a  nerve-rack- 
ing experience  from  which  I  used  to  emerge  with  my 
feathers  all  rubbed  the  wrong  way  from  the  strain  of 
trying  to  imitate  the  intangible  differences  between 
the  various  French  "e's."  But  I  have  always  been 
grateful  for  this  rigid  training,  from  the  time  when 
I  first  reached  Paris,  and,  though  speaking  very  lit- 
tle French,  could  give  an  address  to  a  cocher  with- 
out having  to  repeat  it,  until  now,  when  I  can  thank 
my  trained  ear  for  a  perfect  accent  in  singing  foreign 
languages. 

I  think  no  one  ever  studied  more  unrelentingly  than 
I,  during  that  first  year  of  hot  enthusiasm.  I  began 
early  in  the  morning,  and  the  only  reason  that  I  did 
not  bum  the  midnight  oil  was  that  I  found  it  cost  me 
too  much  in  kerosene  and  firing.  I  could  keep  warm 
in  bed  for  nothing,  and  boulets  were  my  pet  economy. 
Coming  from  a  country  where  a  warm  room  was  taken 
—37— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  :^N  OPERA  SINGER 

for  granted,  and  where  the  furnaces  in  hotels  and 
boarding  houses  might  have  been  supplied  by  Elijah's 
ravens  for  all  I  knew  about  it,  I  just  couldn't  bear  to 
see  my  money  burning  away  bit  by  bit  in  a  grate;  and 
many  a  time  I  have  put  on  my  fur-lined  coat  rather 
than  add  fuel  to  the  dying  heap  of  dreadfully  expen- 
sive ashes  in  the  grille. 


—38— 


CHAPTER  IV 

PENSION    PERSONALITIES 

AT  first  I  had  no  companionship  and  very  little 
recreation,  beyond  the  ever  fresh  wonder  and 
delight  of  the  Paris  streets  as  I  saw  them  in 
my  daily  constitutional.  One  day  I  went  with  a  girl 
friend  to  visit  her  atelier.     I  wrote  to  my  mother: 

"We  spent  a  long  time  in  the  life-class  room — nude, 
(not  us  but  the  model).  It  was  a  mixed  class.  A 
large  oblong  room,  filled  with  I  should  think  over  a 
hundred  students,  mostly  men.  They  sat  in  a  circle 
facing  the  model  throne.  The  floor  is  not  raised,  but 
the  effect  of  an  amphitheatre  is  produced  by  rush  bot- 
tom stools  of  different  heights.  They  rest  their  pads 
or  drawing  portfolios  on  a  railing  in  front  of  them. 
The  room  is  intolerably  hot  because  of  the  model. 
What  struck  us  most  was  the  intense  silence  and  at- 
mosphere of  earnestness;  no  one  speaks  and  there  is 
only  the  gentle  rub-rub  of  the  charcoal,  crayon,  or 
pencil  against  the  paper.  The  students  look  quickly 
up  and  down  and  never  move  their  glance  except 
from  their  sketch  to  the  model  and  back  again.  She 
—39— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

was  a  very  pretty  young  girl  and  took  graceful  half- 
hour  poses.  The  one  interruption  was  a  quiet  voice 
at  the  end  of  a  half -hour,  "C'est  Vheure';  and  they 
stopped  for  a  few  minutes'  rest.  We  went  into  an- 
other room,  where  a  picturesque  old  wretch  with  long 
black  curls,  red  velvet  waist-coat,  long  blue  cape,  well 
thrown  back,  black,  grimy  hands  clasped  around  his 
knee,  and  clumsy,  rusty  boots  stuck  out  in  front  of 
him,  was  seated." 

Later  one  of  these  old  models  used  to  come  to  my 
brother.  He  had  a  card  on  which  was  printed  the  list 
of  poses  he  was  prepared  to  take. — "The  twelve 
Apostles,"  "The  Eternal  Father"  and  "The  God 
Jupiter." 

I  found  a  little  English  tea-room  about  a  mile 
away,  and  often  went  there  for  tea  and  muffins  which 
in  those  days  were  hardly  procurable  in  French  places. 
The  tea-habit  is  only  about  ten  years  old  in  France. 
The  people  in  the  shop  soon  knew  me  by  sight,  which 
was  just  as  well,  as  I  would  begin  going  over  the 
words  of  some  part  in  my  head  and  walk  out  se- 
renely, quite  forgetting  to  pay  for  my  tea.  I  still  go 
there  occasionally  when  I  am  in  Paris  and  remind 
them  of  that.  I  sometimes  went  to  the  two  operas 
and  to  the  theatre,  but  not  nearly  often  enough,  as  I 
could  spare  neither  time  nor  money,  and  the  late 
hours  made  a  concentration  on  the  next  morning's 
—40— 


PENSION  PERSONALITIES 


work  more  difficult.  The  concert  world  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  me.  I  think  I  longed  for  nothing 
so  much  that  year,  as  to  hear  great  orchestral  music 
well  performed;  but  the  Lamoreux  and  Chevillard 
concerts  did  little  to  satisfy  this  craving,  and  I  was 
amazed  at  the  rougliness  of  the  strings  and  the  nar- 
row scope  of  the  programs.  Many  of  the  great  ar- 
tists avoided  Paris  in  their  tours,  the  reason  given 
being  lack  of  suitable  concert  halls. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  whole  new  school  of  compo- 
sition was  opened  to  me  that  winter  by  a  fellow  pen- 
sionnaire.  Charles  Loeffler  and  Henry  Hadley  spent 
part  of  the  winter  in  our  pension,  and  Mr.  Loeffler  in- 
troduced me  to  the  French  modernists.  Later  in  the 
winter  we  often  talked  over  their  works  together.  He 
used  to  stroll  into  my  room  about  tea  time,  saying  he 
liked  to  watch  me  make  tea  for  I  had  such  attractive 
fingers.  He  used  to  take  me  to  the  odd  comers  of  his 
beloved  Paris,  cafes  haunted  by  long-haired  Sorbonne 
students,  and  cafes  chantants,  where  the  frank  im- 
proprieties of  the  ditties  were  for  me  so  impenetrably 
disguised  by  the  argot  in  which  they  were  written  that 
I  did  not  understand  a  word  of  them.  "When  your 
French  gets  more  colloquial,"  he  used  to  say,  "I 
shan't  be  able  to  bring  you  here  any  more.  Oh!  if 
you  were  only  a  man!"  He  always  ended  with  this 
exclamation,  and  I  never  knew  why,  for  my  woman- 
—41— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

hood  did  not  seem  to  disturb  him  particularly.  Per- 
haps he  felt  the  want  of  a  sort  of  Fidus  Achates  to 
confide  in.  He  took  me  to  two  famous  places,  and 
this  is  my  description  of  them  in  a  letter  to  my 
mother: 

"We  went  first  to  the  famous  'Noctambules'  in  the 
Quartier  Latin.  It  is  where  the  wittiest  men  of  their 
genre  are  to  be  found.  They  are  many  of  them  dec- 
orated by  the  government.  One  hears  witty  topical 
songs,  chansons  d" amour,  and  absurdities  telling  of  the 
eels  and  fishes  in  amorous  conversation,  such  ex- 
travagances as  the  French  love.  There  is  no  vul- 
garity. Their  diction  is  marvellous,  and  of  course 
they  sacrifice,  entirely,  their  tone  to  their  words.  All 
around  the  walls  are  posters  and  drawings  of  famous 
artists  and  caricatures  of  Parisians.  The  performers 
are  called  on  in  turn  by  the  master  of  ceremonies,  and 
take  their  stand  on  a  little  platform  in  front  of  the 
piano  half  way  up  the  room.  When  they  have  fin- 
ished, if  they  have  been  popular,  we  are  all  called  on 
to  join  in  the  douhlement  for  Monsieur  so  and  so. 
This  consists  of  clapping  to  a  certain  rhythm,  which 
is  thumped  on  the  piano:  12  3  4  5, — 1  2  3  4  5, — 
12  3  4  5—1  2  3— and  over  again." 

In  those  days  Charles  Fallot  was  still  at  the  "Noc- 
tambules"  and  used  to  arise,  very  black  and  white 
and  thin,  and  gaze  at  himself  in  the  big  mirror  oppo- 
-^2— 


'lit;,„H. 


PENSION  PERSONALITIES 


site,  while  he  gestured  with  his  long,  skinny  arms  and 
thoroughly  French  hands,  and  delivered  himself  of 
his  witty  double  entendre  chansons.  Another  night 
we  went  to  a  famous  Montmartre  place,  Boite  a  Fursy, 
but  it  was  not  at  all  the  same  thing,  and  we  neither 
of  us  liked  it. 

Henry  Hadley  had  the  room  above  me,  and  often 
told  me  my  hours  of  playing  "Carmen,"  etc.,  nearly 
maddened  him.  I  always  studied  in  bed  or  at  the 
piano,  without  singing,  and  rarely  used  my  voice 
when  committing  roles  to  memory,  Hadley  often 
had  Cyril  Scott,  the  English  composer,  in  his  rooms, 
and  I  used  to  listen  with  joy  to  Scott's  imaginative 
playing.  It  was  like  birds  sweeping  and  swooping, 
all  keys  and  intervals  were  interwoven.  He  always 
said,  one  hand  on  his  forehead,  "I  have  no  understand- 
ing for  limitations  of  harmony  or  rules  of  tempo." 
And  indeed  why  should  one  have?  He  liked  noth- 
ing older  than  Debussy  and  was  unspeakably  bored 
by  Cluck  or  Beethoven  and  their  ilk,  though  he  loved 
"Carmen."  Hadley  still  retained  a  strong  admir- 
ation for  Wagner  and  respect  for  the  old  school, 
though  he  much  appreciated  the  modems  and  the 
modem  orchestra.  I  first  saw  Mary  Garden  as 
Melisande  with  him.  We  both  sat  rapt  and  spell- 
bound to  the  end,  transported  by  what  was  to  me  a 
perfect  revelation  as  to  scoring  for  modem  orchestra, 
—43— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


the  intangible  operatic  form,  and  most  of  all  the  subtle 
imaginative  acting  of  Mary  Garden.  Her  power  of 
suggestion  in  those  days  was  capable  of  conveying 
any  shade  of  thought  or  delicate  mood  to  the  specta- 
tor. That  performance  has  always  been  and  will 
always  be  an  inspiration  to  me. 

Hadley  was  always  starting  off  on  impossible  jour- 
neys to  Egypt  and  the  Orient,  in  search  of  "material." 
His  talk  was  filled  with  the  strangest  scraps  of  out-of- 
the-way  information,  like  bright-coloured  rags  in  a 
dust  heap.  Bauer  lived  a  door  or  two  away,  and  I 
used  to  hear  him  practising  and  then  hear  his  concerts. 
A  wordy  war  would  rage  at  our  end  of  the  table  at 
dinner,  while  old  Madame,  from  her  seat  of  honour  in 
the  centre,  would  cry,  "Mais  frangais,  parlez  fran- 
qais,  mes  enfants!  You  crush  my  ears  with  your 
English!"  Of  course,  no  attention  was  paid  to  her. 
Joining  passionately  in  the  discussions,  though  not 
themselves  of  the  metier,  were  two  American  girls,  liv- 
ing  on  the  top  floor,  who  were  supposed  to  be  writing 
a  play  together.  One  or  another  of  the  composers 
was  usually  more  or  less  in  love  with  one  or  other  of 
the  girls,  and  they  took  sides  accordingly,  for  and 
against  the  recognized  masters  of  the  past.  The  two 
were  amusing,  always  doing  something  eccentric. 

At  one  time  they  had  an  incubator  in  their  room, 
the  gift  of  a  passing  admirer,  and  we  engaged  pas- 
—44— 


PENSION  PERSONALITIES 


sionately  in  raising  chickens.  The  machine  was 
heated  by  a  huge  kerosene  lamp,  and  they  were  always 
turning  it  too  high  and  having  it  fill  the  room  with 
blacks  and  smoke,  or  letting  it  go  out  altogether. 
However,  two  or  three  chicks,  more  strenuously  deter- 
mined to  live  than  tlie  rest,  managed  to  struggle  out  at 
lengtli,  and  tlieir  advent  was  heralded  by  the  whole 
pension.  We  had  marked  our  initials  on  the  eggs, 
one  egg  each,  and  when  mine  showed  the  first  signs  of 
life,  I  held  it  in  my  hand  till  it  was  partly  hatched. 
The  little  pecks  inside  the  shell  were  fascinating  to 
feel  in  one's  palm.  As  soon  as  the  chicks  could  walk, 
they  were  taken  downstairs  into  the  cite,  and  their  at- 
tempts to  scratch  gravel  were  hailed  by  the  assembled 
inhabitants  of  the  garden  in  a  rapture  of  several  lan- 
guages. One  Englishman  wanted  to  make  them  little 
jackets,  so  he  could  take  them  for  walks  in  the  Bois. 

Discussion  was  meat  and  drink  to  all  these  people. 
Their  cry  was  "Sensations,  sensations!  Let  the  ar- 
tist experience  everything  in  his  own  person!"  This 
doctrine  sounded  rather  a  menace  to  conduct,  but  talk- 
ing endlessly  about  sensations  seemed  to  be  equivalent 
in  most  cases  to  experiencing  them.  Nevertheless, 
some  of  them  indulged  in  desperate  orgies  of  black 
coffee  and  cigarettes  as  an  invocation  to  their  muse; 
and  one  of  the  composers  assured  me  that  the  great 
symphonic  poem  on  which  he  was  at  work,  had  been 
-45— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

inspired  by  breaking  a  bottle  of  Houbigant's  Ideal  in 
a  closed  cab  and  driving  for  hours  in  the  Bois,  inhal- 
ing the  perfume.  They  loved  to  recount  these  Gar- 
gantuan excesses,  and  were  extravagant  in  praise  of 
midnight  oil,  attic  windows,  and  the  calm  inspiration 
of  early  dawn  after  nights  of  frantic  toil.  They  were 
dreadfully  sincere,  and  very  amusing  to  watch,  but  it 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  stage  set- 
ting for  very  little  play.  They  tended  the  green  shoot 
of  their  artistic  development  with  such  fantastic  care, 
that  it  was  in  danger  of  dying  from  too  much  con- 
sideration. Personally,  I  was  too  busy,  either  for 
sensations  or  the  analysis  of  them,  though  I  used  to 
wonder  what  this  Paris  could  be  like  into  which  they 
journeyed  and  from  which  they  returned  full  of  tales 
of  affairs  and  lovely  women  and  gorgeous  houses.  It 
all  seemed  most  romantic  and  interesting  to  me. 

The  other  end  of  the  dinner  table  represented  staid 
conventionality  in  contrast  to  our  anarchism.  In  the 
centre  sat  Madame  and  beside  her  her  life-long  friend, 
the  editor  of  one  of  the  Paris  newspapers.  Some 
hinted  that  he  was  something  more  than  a  friend,  in 
spite  of  Madame's  seventy  years.     Opposite  her,  was 

Madame  M ,  once  an  American  in  the  days  of 

long  ago,  but  with  no  trace  of  it  left  except  in  her  per- 
sistent accent.     She  was  reputed  to  possess  one  hun- 
dred dresses,  and  certainly  the  variety  of  her  costume 
—46— 


PENSION  PERSONALITIES 


was  amazing;  but  as  she  was  at  least  fifty-five  and 
had  preserved  every  gown  for  the  last  thirty  years, 
her  annual  dress  expenditure,  after  all,  was  probably 
not  extravagant.  Her  old  husband  was  never  allowed 
a  word  when  she  was  present,  so  he  revenged  himself 
for  the  privation  by  interfering  with  every  game 
started  after  dinner  in  the  salon — bridge,  poker,  pa- 
tience, no  matter  what  it  was,  he  always  insisted  that 
the  players  were  quite  wrong  and  that  he  could  show 
them  how  it  was  done  in  the  clubs. 

There  was  a  young  Russian  girl  with  a  pretty  face 
and  pretty  clothes,  whose  hands,  however,  betrayed 
her  peasant  origin.  Her  beautiful  sister  was  engaged 
at  the  Grand  Opera,  so  she  was  an  object  of  great  in- 
terest to  me.  There  were  some  Swedes,  and  nonde- 
script Americans,  and  a  charming  French  family,  a 
mother  and  two  daughters,  bearers  of  an  historic  name, 
who  had  come  up  from  their  chateau  in  the  South  of 
France  that  the  girls  might  have  masters  in  various 
"accomplishments,"  and  were  living  in  the  pension 
from  motives  of  economy.  On  Sundays  their  brother, 
a  young  naval  officer,  used  to  dine  with  them.  With 
his  pale,  aristocratic  face,  and  with  little  side-whis- 
kers, the  high  stock  of  his  uniform,  his  strapped  trou- 
sers and  narrow,  arched  feet,  he  was  like  a  John 
Leech  drawing  come  to  life.  Then  there  was  a  large 
Frenchwoman,  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Quelquechose, 
-47— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

who  lent  the  lustre  of  her  title  and  her  ancestral 
jewels  to  our  bourgeois  board.  At  least,  she  said  her 
jewels  were  heirlooms,  but  her  ancestors  must  have 
had  a  prophetic  taste  in  jewelry,  as  I  often  saw  re- 
plicas of  her  ornaments  in  the  shops  of  the  rue  de 
Rivoli.  An  old  Englishwoman  completed  our  list  of 
permanencies.  In  spite  of  twenty  years'  residence 
in  Paris,  she  would  still  ask  for  "oon  petty  poo  de 
pang"  in  a  high,  drawling  voice.  There  were  tran- 
sients of  many  nationalities,  but  these  were  our  regular 
inmates. 

An  interesting  man  sometimes  dined  with  us. 
Writing  my  mother  about  him  I  say: 

"Last  night  Mr.  H dined  here  and  told  us 

many  yams  about  Sarah  Bernhardt.  He  said  once 
when  he  was  in  California  he  was  asked  to  meet  her 
and  they  all  went  on  a  hunting  picnic  together.  She 
dropped  her  robe  when  she  got  to  the  island  where 
they  had  dejeuner,  undoing  a  wide,  heavy,  Egyptian 
gold  and  precious-stone  belt,  and  appeared  attired  in 
a  man's  velvet  hunting-suit.  He  says  she  adores  to 
talk  cancan,  and  referred  to  the  manager  as  'that 
cochon'  After  breakfast,  she  threw  the  champagne 
bottles  far  into  the  lake  and  shot  them  to  pieces  at  the 
first  shot.  The  only  posey  thing  she  did  was  when 
she  undid  her  belt  and  threw  it  far  across  the  road, 
and  when  he  asked  her  if  that  was  the  way  she  treated 
— 4S— 


PENSION  PERSONALITIES 


such  beautiful  things,  she  said  that  the  man  who  gave 
it  to  her  was  domestic!  ...  It  is  colder  than  charity 
here  at  present,  at  least  I  feel  it  so  in  the  house.  I 
shall  start  my  fire  today  for  the  first  time.  Yesterday 
I  bought  a  bunch  of  violets,  and  do  you  know  why? 
To  keep  myself  from  buying  chestnuts,  which  are  bad 
for  the  voice.  You  see,  if  I  spent  my  sous  for  violets 
I  could  not  afford  more  for  chestnuts.  Thus  pre- 
vented I  myself." 


—49— 


CHAPTER  V 

OPERATIC  FRANCE  VERSUS  OPERATIC  GERMANY 

AFTER  a  few  months  of  strenuous  endeavour  on 
my  part,  I  began  to  be  a  little  dissatisfied  and 
restless.  I  saw  clearly  that  in  a  year's  time, 
working  at  such  pressure,  I  should  have  a  sufficient 
repertoire  to  begin  my  apprenticeship  on  the  stage; 
but  I  did  not  see  my  way  to  a  debut  quite  so  clearly. 
I  talked  with  the  other  pupils,  to  get  their  ideas  of 
progression.  They  all  said,  "When  I  make  my  debut 
at  the  Opera,"  or  "the  Comique."  They  were  all 
sure  of  an  opening  at  the  top  and  apparently  would 
consider  nothing  less  than  leading  roles  in  a  world 
capital.  That  was  not  my  idea  at  all.  I  did  not  care 
about  a  debut.  I  wanted  to  learn  to  act,  to  do  my 
big  parts  over  and  over  again  before  an  audience,  to 
sing  them  into  my  voice,  to  learn  to  make  voice,  face, 
and  my  whole  body  an  articulate  expression  of  all 
that  the  role  had  to  say. 

I  tried  to  find  out  how  the  singers  of  the  two  operas 

had  made  their  careers.     Some,  I  learned,  though 

doing  leading  work,  still  paid  for  their  performances 

by  taking  so  and  so  many  francs  worth  of  seats  every 

—50— 


FRANCE  VERSUS  GERMANY 

time  they  sang.  Some  had  gained  a  hearing  by  the 
influence  of  their  teachers.  Some  were  there  by  "pro- 
tection." The  Russian  girl's  sister  was  very  beauti- 
ful, but  she  was  not  very  gifted  either  vocally  or  his- 
trionically, and  I  wondered  at  her  engagement,  until 
I  heard  that  she  was  the  protegee  of  a  certain  rich  man. 
The  winners  of  the  first  prize  at  the  Conservatoire  had 
a  chance  given  them,  and  one  or  two  had  made  good 
to  a  certain  extent,  and  still  sang  occasionally.  But, 
I  thought,  if  the  debutantes  of  the  Conservatoire  must 
be  given  an  opportunity,  there  can  be  very  little  room 
for  other  inexperienced  singers,  and  certainly  none 
for  foreigners.  The  "France  for  the  French"  spirit 
had  impressed  me  tremendously,  as  it  must  all  for- 
eigners in  Paris.  Generous  as  the  city  is  to  them, 
she  rightly  gives  her  rewards  to  those  of  her  own  race 
first. 

The  opera  class  was  another  source  of  annoyance 
to  me.  The  one  idea  was  "copy  what  I  show  you" — 
make  a  faithful  imitation  whether  it  expresses  what 
you  feel  or  not;  it  doesn't  matter  what  you  feel  so 
long  as  you  pour  everything  into  the  same  moulds 
and  turn  out  neat  little  shapes,  labelled  "love,"  "hate," 
"despair,"  all  ready  for  use,  and  all  "true  to  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  French  school."  The  first  lessons  of  all 
were  in  standing  and  walking,  and  there  began  my 
sadness.  The  traditions  demanded  that  one's  feet  be 
—51— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

set  eternally  at  "ten  minutes  to  two."  Mine  would 
deviate  from  this  rule,  and  I  aided  and  abetted  them 
in  their  mutiny.  My  instinct  was  to  sit  down  occa- 
sionally with  my  knees  together,  instead  of  always 
draping  one  leg  at  the  side  of  the  chair.  I  often  felt 
like  singing  quite  a  long  phrase  with  no  gestures  at  all, 
instead  of  keeping  up  a  succession  of  undulating  arm- 
movements. 

Our  dramatic  coach,  a  fiery  individual,  who 
chewed  coffee-berries  persistently,  struggled  in  vain 
to  teach  me  to  lay  one  hand  on  my  heart  in  the  tradi- 
tional manner,  two  middle  fingers  together,  little  one 
crooked,  thumb  in.  Sometimes  mine  looked  like  a 
starfish,  and  sometimes  like  a  fist,  and  botli  were 
taboo.  Gestures  had  to  melt  into  each  other;  there 
were  diff"erent  ones  for  diff'erent  emotions,  and  woe  be- 
tide you  if  you  mixed  them!  There  was  a  sort  of 
test  speech  beginning,  ''Moi,  qui  vous  parle.'"  The 
hand  at  "^moi"  had  to  be  laid  upon  the  chest  in  the 
approved  manner.  I  have  forgotten  the  middle,  but 
the  end  was,  "Et  je  vous  jure,  que  je  le  ferai  jamais!" 
At  jure  one  elevated  the  right  hand,  the  first  two 
fingers  raised,  and  at  jamais  the  right  arm  described 
a  figure  eight  across  the  upper  half  of  the  body,  with 
the  gesture  of  tearing  away  a  long  beard.  We  did 
this  all  winter  and  never  reached  perfection,  that  is, 
an  exact  copy  of  Valdejo,  our  instructor. 
—52— 


FRANCE  VERSUS  GERMANY 


We  had  to  practice  the  classic  walk — slowly  ad- 
vancing, foot  dragging,  stomach  out,  very  lordly  to 
see,  one  arm  bent  from  the  elbow  with  the  forearm  and 
hand  resting  against  the  body — a  most  difficult  thing. 
The  different  versions  were  very  comic,  but  the  idea 
was  excellent  and  I  used  it  later  in  "Orfeo."  Cer- 
tainly a  pulled  back  tummy  would  not  be  in  char- 
acter in  a  Greek  tunic. 

Later,  we  had  to  act  scenes  from  our  operas,  and 
there  I  got  on  better.  I  used  to  get  absorbed  in  the 
character  to  the  extent  of  becoming  perfectly  oblivious 
of  my  surroundings.  I  remember  once,  as  Dalila, 
throwing  myself  so  hard  upon  the  supposed  couch  of 
Dalila,  that  I  thumped  my  head  on  the  marble  mantel 
behind  me.  My  watching  class  mates  burst  into  a 
snicker,  and  I  into  real  tears  of  anger,  not  of  pain. 
I  had  entirely  forgotten  tliem  when  their  giggles 
wrenched  me  back  into  the  present;  but  their  great 
pride  was  never  to  forget  themselves  and  always  to 
be  ready  to  imitate  the  coach  in  cold  blood.  He, 
however,  appreciated  that  I  had  something  in  me,  and 
used  to  thump  me  on  the  back,  and  call  me  "Ca- 
naille!" when  I  did  anything  that  pleased  him — a  curi- 
ous expression  of  approval. 

I  am  not  denouncing  the  ordinary  "opera  class." 
This  method  of  slavish  imitation  doubtless  has  its 
usefulness  for  some  people.     The  old  order  of  opera 
—53— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

singer  was  often  trained  by  such  schooling.  But  Mary 
Garden  had  opened  my  eyes  to  the  new  order  of  sing- 
ing actors,  and  the  old  method  was  no  help  to  me.  I 
longed  for  a  real  stage  on  which  to  try  out  my  own 
ideas,  and  find  by  experience  whether  they  were 
right  or  wrong.  I  wanted  to  gain  that  subtle  quality, 
"authority,"  which  is  nearly  as  important  as  voice  it- 
self, that  routine  which  makes  one  forget  the  four  long 
bones  of  the  body,  and  blends  all  its  members  into  an 
instrument  of  expression,  homogeneous  and  harmoni- 
ous. 

In  my  researches  into  the  life-stories  of  French  sing- 
ers, I  heard  much  of  "the  French  provinces"  as  a 
training  school,  and  turned  my  attention  to  accumulat- 
ing all  the  information  on  that  subject  that  I  could 
gather.  I  heard  tales  of  southern  audiences  who 
cheered  their  singers  to  the  echo,  waited  in  a  mob  to 
tear  the  horses  from  their  carriages  after  a  perform- 
ance, pelted  them  with  flowers  and  expressed  their 
approval  in  other  picturesque  fashions.  The  reverse 
side  of  these  tales  is  of  directly  opposite  character, 
when  benches  are  torn  up  and  flung  over  the  gal- 
lery by  the  "gods,"  disappointed  at  not  hearing  a 
favourite  singer,  and  the  head  of  the  unlucky  substi- 
tute is  the  target  for  their  missiles  till  he  makes  good 
with  a  high  note  loud  enough  to  pierce  the  din  of  their 
protestation.  If  a  wretched  singer  clears  his  throat 
—54— 


FRANCE  VERSUS  GERMANY 


loud  enough  to  be  heard,  he  will  be  greeted  at  each  en- 
trance by  a  chorus  of  throat-clearing  from  the  gallery. 
If  his  acting  of  a  part  strikes  them  as  being  preten- 
tious or  over-solemn,  groans  and  cries  of  "Shake- 
spear-r-r-e"  reward  his  efforts.  To  crack  on  a  high 
note  is  the  certain  signal  for  a  riot  of  yelling  and 
jeers,  but  the  unhappy  singer  must  stick  it  out  at  any 
cost,  for  if  he  leaves  the  stage,  they  wait  for  him 
outside  and  set  upon  him  bodily. 

"If  you've  made  the  round  of  the  Provinces,"  as 
Harry  Weldon,  who  has  done  so,  once  said  to  me,  "you 
can  sing  in  Hell!" 

Of  course,  not  all  provincial  audiences  are  so  "tem- 
peramental" as  the  southerners,  but,  as  far  as  I  could 
learn,  paid  performances  and  protection  seemed  to 
exist  everywhere  in  greater  or  less  degree.  The  rep- 
ertoire was  limited  and  old-fashioned — the  standard 
French  operas,  "Faust,"  "Mignon,"  "Carmen,"  "Ham- 
let,"  were  performed,  with  "Traviata,"  "Travatore," 
"Aida,"  "The  Barber,"  some  Meyerbeer,  and  many 
of  the  lighter  works,  like  "La  Fille  du  Regiment." 
Among  the  more  modem  works  were  "Werther"  and 
"Manon"  of  Massenet,  with  "Boheme"  and  "Butter- 
fly"  and  perhaps  "Louise."  "Lohengrin"  and  "Tann- 
hauser"  were  sometimes  given,  but  the  big  Wagner 
dramas,  the  classics  of  Mozart,  Weber  and  Cluck,  and 
the  modems  like  Debussy,  Dukas,  Strauss,  Humper- 

—55— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

dinck,  seemed  neglected.  Over  all  there  hung  a  gen- 
eral lack  of  method,  musical  thoroughness  and  dis- 
cipline. I  must  confess  that  I  judge  largely  by  hear- 
say, as  the  only  provincial  French  opera  house  of 
which  I  have  any  personal  knowledge  is  that  of  Nancy. 
So  it  may  be  that  I  do  "The  Provinces"  an  injustice. 
Of  course,  both  Monte  Carlo  and  Nice  offer  many 
novelties.  But  then  Monte  Carlo  is  not  a  provincial 
French  opera  at  all. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  stories  I  heard  of  the  great 
operatic  machinery  of  Germany  began  to  attract  me 
irresistibly.  The  organized  system  of  opera,  the 
great  chain  of  opera  houses,  the  discipline  of  their 
rigid  schooling,  the  concentration  and  deep  musical 
sincerity  of  their  musicians,  the  simplicity  of  German 
life,  all  seemed  to  offer  what  I  was  looking  for.  The 
dramatic  quality  of  my  voice  would  have  more  scope 
in  their  more  varied  repertoire,  while  surely  in  their 
hundred-odd  opera  houses  I  might  find  a  place  to 
work  out  my  ideas  in  peace. 

Every  one  thought  me  crazy.  My  teachers  tried 
their  hardest  to  dissuade  me,  promising  me  a  great 
career  in  France.  But  I  felt  a  call  to  Germany  where 
I  hoped  to  find  die  right  conditions  for  my  own  devel- 
opment which  seemed  lacking  in  France.  The  great 
barrier  was  the  language — ^the  difficulty  of  singing 
in  it,  to  say  nothing  of  learning  it,  for  I  did  not  know 
—56— 


FRANCE  VERSUS  GERMANY 

one  word.  Jean  de  Reszke  said  to  me  later,  speaking 
of  German  as  a  language  for  singing:  "Avec  cette 
langue,  vous  narriverez  jamais"  (With  that  lan- 
guage, you  will  never  succeed.)  However,  I  have 
said  tliat  I  had  a  good  deal  of  courage  in  those  days, 
and  I  determined  to  go  to  Berlin  to  try  my  luck. 

Not  that  I  was  tired  of  Paris.  It  is  still  my  favour- 
ite city  offering  a  wonderful  opportunity  for  broaden- 
ing culture  to  those  who  can  get  into  touch  with  its 
art  life.  I  owe  it  a  great  debt  for  deepening  my 
artistic  perception,  and  developing  that  sense  of  true 
proportion  which  keeps  one  from  exaggeration  on 
the  one  hand  and  pedantry  on  the  other.  But  I  should 
not  recommend  Paris  as  the  best  school  for  the  ordi- 
nary American  student  of  singing,  who  has  no  op- 
portunity to  penetrate  into  real  French  life.  There 
is  no  lack  of  sincerity  in  the  real  French  institutions, 
the  Conservatoire,  the  schools  of  art,  the  Sorbonne — 
there  are  found  concentration,  competition,  and  keen- 
ness enough.  But  the  foreign  student  of  singing  does 
not  ordinarily  come  into  contact  with  these  institutions. 
In  the  Paris  vocal  studios,  as  I  know  them,  there  is 
a  dissipation  instead  of  a  conservation  of  energy. 
The  students  expect  to  win  the  crown  without  running 
the  race,  and  money  and  influence  play  too  great  a 
role.  They  (vocal  students,  I  mean)  tend  to  exag- 
gerate their  little  emotions  into  grandes  passions,  and 
—57— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

hold  the  most  disproportionate  views  of  their  own  im- 
portance. I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  agree  with  a 
certain  singer  who  brought  back  harrowing  tales  of 
immorality  among  American  students  in  Europe. 
Amongst  all  the  hundreds  of  vocal  students  I  have 
known,  I  never  met  one  case  of  flagrant  misbehaviour. 
In  general  the  girls  live  quietly  and  strive  according 
to  their  lights,  though  there  is  not  one  in  twenty  with 
resolution  enough  to  concentrate  on  the  hard  work 
necessary  for  a  great  career.  The  temptation  is  to 
fritter  away  both  time  and  money  on  the  things  that 
don't  matter. 


-58— 


CHAPTER  VI 

PREPARING   ROLES   IN   BERLIN 

THE  first  of  September,  without  a  word  of  Ger- 
man, I  set  out  for  Berlin.  My  mother  had 
come  over  during  the  preceding  Spring,  to 
make  her  home  in  Paris  with  my  sculptor  brother 
Cecil  and  my  sister.  From  this  time  on  I  went  to 
them  for  the  summers,  and  my  sister  joined  me  when 
I  went  to  Metz,  and  has  never  left  me  since.  It  made 
it  harder  to  leave  both  family  and  Paris  behind  and 
go  into  an  unknown  land,  but  I  felt  it  to  be  the  best 
way. 

Lilli  Lehmann's  studio  was  my  objective  point.  I 
found  her  address  in  a  musical  journal,  and  armed 
with  that,  and  the  address  of  an  inexpensive  pension, 
I  took  the  train.  Arrived  in  Berlin,  I  took  a 
Droschke,  directing  the  driver  to  my  pension  by  show- 
ing him  the  street  and  number  on  a  piece  of  paper. 
Somewhere  between  that  Droschke  and  my  room,  my 
travelling  clock  got  lost,  and  what  a  time  I  had  to 
recover  it!  The  apple-cheeked  maid  knew  of  the 
—59— 


/■ 

CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

existence  of  no  other  language  beside  her  own.  In 
vain  I  made  a  pendulum  of  my  finger  and  tirelessly 
repeated  "tick,  tick" — no  gleam  of  intelligence 
dawned  in  her  Prussian  blue  eyes. 

The  first  few  days  brought  a  series  of  disappoint- 
ments. The  Lehmann  idea  had  to  be  abandoned. 
She  was  out  of  town  and  recommended  me  by  letter 

to  a  certain  Herr ,  to  whom  she  was  sending  every 

one  who  applied  to  her.  I  found  him  a  dear  old  man 
indeed,  but  one  who  had  notliing  to  say  to  me  on 
the  subject  of  voice  production  which  I  had  not 
heard  already.  However,  I  decided  to  begin  the 
study  of  German  repertoire  with  him,  painstakingly 
re-learning  the  operas  I  already  knew  in  French, 
and  adding  the  new  ones  required  for  a  German 
engagement.  Later  I  found  a  good  repetiteur,  who 
knew  the  operas  tlioroughly,  quite  sufficient  and  much 
cheaper,  as  he  charged  only  four  marks  ($1.00)  an 
hour.     I  studied  the  words  of  my  roles  with  Herr 

's  wife,  who  had  been  an  actress  and  a  good 

one,  and  who  laid  the  foundation  of  what  I  am  proud 
to  say  is  now  a  perfect  German  accent.  These  les- 
sons were  five  marks  an  hour  and  were  quite  worth 
it.  I  would  learn  a  role  by  heart,  sentence  by  sen- 
tence, looking  up  every  word  in  the  dictionary  and 
writing  in  the  translation  over  the  German,  spending 
hours  in  fruitless  search  for  a  past  participle  which 
—60— 


PREPARING  ROLES  IN  BERLIN 

did  not  look  as  if  it  belonged  to  its  infinitive,  the  only 
part  of  the  verb,  of  course,  to  be  given  in  the  diction- 
ary!    Then,  sentence  by  sentence,  I  would  go  over 

it  with  Frau  ,  repeating  each  word  after  her, 

sometimes  twenty  times!  We  also  used  those  splen- 
did books,  known  I  found  afterwards  to  every  German 
actor,  in  which  paragraphs  of  words  with  the  same 
vowel  sound  or  combination  of  vowel  and  consonants 
are  given  to  be  repeated  over  and  over  again.  Be- 
sides this  drudgery,  I  had  German  lessons  for  four 
months  (at  three  marks  or  seventy-five  cents)  for 
which  I  had  to  translate  and  write  exercises.  All  the 
labyrinths  of  the  declension  of  articles,  nouns  and  ad- 
jectives in  three  genders  and  plurals,  lay  before  me  to 
be  explored.  The  datives  and  accusatives  haunted 
my  dreams  by  night,  and  by  day  I  was  reduced  to 
the  sign  language. 

I  had  left  my  first  pension,  and  crushing  down 
the  temptation  to  live  in  one  of  the  big,  gay  German- 
American  pensions,  where  justice  is  tempered  with 
mercy,  so  to  speak,  I  moved  myself  and  my  piano 
into  a  real  German  one,  where  I  was  the  only  alien. 
It  was  one  floor  of  a  large  house  in  a  quiet  side  street 
— the  top  floor,  and  no  elevator!  I  climbed  eighty- 
seven  steps  by  actual  count  every  time  I  cnme  home 
from  a  lesson.  I  had  a  huge  room,  heated  by  steam, 
with  board  for  four  marks  a  day.  The  meals  were 
—61— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

echt  Deutsch.  Breakfast  was  set  ready  on  the  din- 
ing-room table  at  some  miearthly  hour,  and  the  guests 
went  in  and  helped  themselves  when  they  chose.  The 
coffee  and  hot  milk  were  kept  warm  over  little  al- 
cohol flames,  and  there  were  delicious  Berlin  rolls  and 
the  best  of  unsalted  butter.  Dinner  was  at  two,  and 
was  good  in  its  plain  way.  We  had  some  North 
German  dishes  which  one  had  to  learn  to  enjoy,  like 
olives.  Hot  chocolate  soup  I  grew  quite  fond  of, 
but  beer  soup,  sorrel  soup,  and  cabbage  soup  with 
cherries  in  it  were  never  exactly  intimates  of  mine. 
One  dish  of  baked  ham  with  dumplings  and  hot 
plum  jam  sounds  strange,  but  improves  on  acquaint- 
ance; Pumpernickel,  and  Schmierkaese  are  better 
than  their  names,  and  Kartoffelpuffen  mit  Preissel- 
beeren  (potato  cakes  with  cranberries)  are  delicious. 
We  had  good  plain  puddings  and  black  coffee  for 
dessert  every  day,  and  quite  wonderful  roast  Pomer- 
anian goose  and  Eistorte  with  whipped  cream  on 
Sundays.  Supper  was  at  eight,  and  the  menu  was 
certainly  a  model  for  the  simple  life.  Bread  and 
butter  with  slices  of  sausage  and  cold  ham,  some- 
times big  dishes  of  roast  chestnuts  instead  of  cold 
meat,  or  potatoes  in  their  jackets,  or  some  of  the 
endless  variety  of  North-German  cheeses — to  drink, 
tea  or  beer,  and  that  was  all. 

My  fellow  pensionnaires  were  nearly  all  teachers, 
—62— 


PREPARING  ROLES  IN  BERLIN 

or  students  preparing  to  be  teachers.  They  all  spoke 
German  and  nothing  but  German,  and,  at  first,  I 
used  to  think  my  mind  would  drown  in  the  over^vhelm- 
ing  floods  of  it  that  assailed  my  ears.  Gradually  it 
came  to  sound  like  individual  words  and  phrases,  and 
soon  I  dared  occasionally  to  launch  a  small  conversa- 
tional barque  upon  it,  avoiding  the  disastrous  rocks 
of  gender  as  skilfully  as  possible,  though  often  at 
first,  by  the  time  that  my  genders  and  cases  were  all 
arranged  for  a  sentence,  the  subject  had  changed, 
and  I  could  not  use  it.  We  had  a  Fraulein  Lanz, 
Fraulein  Franz,  and  Fraulein.  Kranz,  four  or  five  other 
Frauleins  and  no  males  at  all. 

Another  American  student  of  singing  came  to  live 
there,  and  in  the  evening  we  used  to  go  to  the  opera 
or  to  concerts  together.  Everytliing  begins  early  in 
Berlin,  and  those  who  had  tickets  for  some  entertain- 
ment missed  the  eight  o'clock,  supper.  So  plates  of 
belegte  Broedchen  (rolls  with  cold  meat)  would  be 
set  out  for  them  on  the  dining-table,  and  all  the  others 
would  be  sitting  there  with  their  needle-work,  and 
would  demand  "Nun,  wie  tvar  es?"  when  we  came  in. 
On  Saturdays  the  evening  paper  announced  the  pro- 
gram at  the  opera  for  the  week,  and  we  could  hardly 
wait  to  look  at  it.  The  cheaper  seats  are  in  great 
demand.  Students  wait  for  hours,  sometimes  from 
earliest  dawn,  outside  the  box  office  on  Sunday  mom- 
—63— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

ings  when  the  sale  for  the  week  begins.  We  had  an 
arrangement  with  the  keeper  oi  a  little  fruit  and 
vegetable  shop,  to  save  ourselves  the  wait.  We  would 
decide  what  we  wished  to  see  and  go  over  to  his  shop 
on  Saturday  evening  to  order  the  seats  from  him. 
He  then  went  down  early  enough  to  secure  the  front 
row  in  the  top  gallery  for  us  at  two  marks  fifty,  and 
we  paid  him  twelve  cents  for  his  trouble.  Sixty-two 
cents  is  quite  a  high  price  in  comparison  to  those  of 
the  rest  of  the  Opera  House,  for  the  orchestra  chairs 
cost  only  eight  marks.  The  top  gallery  is  vast,  and 
the  back  rows  are  much  cheaper,  but  the  authorities 
show  their  sense  in  keeping  up  the  price  of  the  front 
rows  and  I  don't  think  there  is  ever  an  empty  seat 
there.  To  concerts  we  were  often  admitted  free,  on 
saying  that  we  were  students,  unless  the  artist  was  a 
great  favourite,  and  in  that  case  we  could  buy  stand- 
ing room,  or  seats  in  the  gallery  for  one  mark.  We 
always  went  and  came  home  in  the  street  cars,  pay- 
ing the  two  cent  fare  with  a  one  cent  tip  to  the  con- 
ductor, and  dressing  in  our  ordinary  street  clothes, 
with  scarves  over  our  hair.  I  used  to  go  alone  some- 
times, and  was  never  spoken  to  or  molested  in  any 
way.  No  one  looked  at  you  twice,  unless  you  looked 
at  him  three  times. 

On  Sundays  I  would  take  a  day  off,  and,  in  true 
German  fashion,  make  an  expedition;  in  bad  weather 
—64— 


PREPARING  ROLES  IN  BERLIN 

to  some  museum  or  picture  gallery,  in  Autumn  or 
Spring  to  some  out-of-door  restaurant.  Sometimes 
I  was  too  tired  to  go  further  than  the  Tiergarten. 
Then  I  would  stroll  gently  across  it  and  have  coffee 
and  cakes  at  the  Zelt,  or  big  open-air  refreshment 
gardens  where  the  band  plays.  Tliey  are  the  resort 
of  hoi  polloi  of  Berlin  in  countless  family  groups: 
the  father  rather  fat  with  hirsute  adornments,  the 
mother  also  rather  massive,  and  their  plump  children, 
all  drinking  beer  out  of  tall  glasses  and  mugs,  or 
coffee  in  inch-thick  white  cups,  and  eating  wedges 
of  highly  decorated  Torte,  with  or  without  the  addi- 
tion of  heaped-up  whipped  cream. 

If  I  felt  more  strenuous,  I  would  take  a  car  out  to 
the  Grunewald,  a  villa-colony  suburb,  with  roads 
winding  through  pine  woods.  I  would  sit  under  the 
trees  and  invite  my  soul.  As  I  sat  there,  some  girl 
or  boy's  school  would  come  trooping  by,  singing  a 
Volkslied  of  interminable  verses,  in  four  parts,  having 
tramped  all  day  for  the  pure  joy  of  motion  in  the 
open  air.  Then  I  would  have  coffee  and  a  triangle  of 
cherry  pie,  and  what  cherry  pie!  at  the  Hundekehle, 
an  immense  restaurant  on  the  border  of  a  small  lake, 
accommodating  I  don't  know  how  many  fat  Prus- 
sians at  once  with  refreshments.  Every  German 
town  has  some  such  resort,  where  inexpensive  creature 
comforts  are  the  reward  of  a  long  walk.     Such  an  ex- 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

pedition  of  the  whole  family  is  their  greatest  treat, 
and  one  in  which  they  have  the  sense  to  indulge  as 
often  as  possible.  Even  on  week  day  afternoons  the 
housewives  find  time  for  a  stroll,  a  reviving  cup  of 
coffee,  and  a  little  gossip,  though  of  course  that  is 
not  the  same  thing  as  going  en  masse  with  Hans  and 
the  Kinder.     Of  course,  this  was  long  before  the  war. 


—66— 


CHAPTER  VII 

MY   FIRST   OPERATIC    CONTRACT    SIGNED 

BY  the  first  of  December  I  had  broken  the  back 
of  the  German  declensions,  understood  a  good 
part  of  an  ordinary  conversation,  and  had 
painfully  acquired  three  or  four  roles  in  German. 
The  gadfly  of  my  ambition  began  to  torment  me 
again,  and  I  determined  to  look  for  a  "job." 

Students  often  ask  me  "How  did  you  get  your  first 
engagement?"  This  is  how.  I  went  to  see  the  best 
agent  in  Berlin,  Herr  Harder,  a  man  of  the  highest 
reputation  for  fair  dealing,  who  was  the  recognized 
head  of  his  profession.  Opinion  as  to  the  agent's 
powers  of  usefulness  is  divided  among  singers. 
Some  maintain  that  they  have  made  all  their  good 
engagements  independently,  others  tell  you  that  you 
are  safe  only  in  the  hands  of  a  reputable  agent.  I 
have  closed  contracts  in  both  ways.  The  agent  is 
not  omnipotent.  It  is  his  business  to  watch  the  op- 
eratic field  and  notify  you  when  there  is  a  vacancy 
that  he  thinks  would  suit  you.  He  is  apt  to  know 
first  where  such  vacancies  are  likely  to  occur.  Di- 
rectors who  are  looking  for  singers  sometimes  go 
—67— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER  , 

straight  to  their  favourite  agent.  Then  he,  the  agent, 
sends  you  word  that  Herr  Direktor  So  and  So  will 
be  at  his  Bureau  on  such  a  day  to  hear  singers.  When 
you  respond,  you  may  find  yourself  the  only  contralto 
among  many  other  voices,  or  you  may  find  yourself 
one  of  six  or  seven  all  wanting  the  same  engagement. 
The  agent  keeps  contract  blanks  in  his  office,  and  when 
he  hears  of  a  vacancy  in  an  opera  house,  he  fills  in 
a  blank  with  your  name,  the  name  of  the  theatre,  and 
tentatively  the  salary  he  thinks  they  will  pay,  and 
sends  it  to  you.  You  sign  it  if  it  suits  you,  and  re- 
turn it  to  the  agent.  This  is  really  nothing  more  than 
a  notification  that  there  is,  or  will  be,  such  a  vacancy, 
and  is  not  worth  the  paper  it  is  written  on.  American 
girls,  who  do  not  understand  this,  will  tell  you  that 
they  have  "been  offered  Berlin,  or  Vienna,  or  Mun- 
ich," when  they  have  merely  received  one  of  these 
Agenten-Vertrdge.  A  contract  is  worth  nothing  as 
such,  until  it  is  countersigned  by  the  director  of  the 
opera  house,  and  yourself  as  singer.  Even  then,  it 
is  not  valid  until  you  have  sung  as  many  "trial  per- 
formances" at  the  opera  house  as  the  contract  calls 
for,  and  for  which  you  may  have  to  wait  six  months. 
I  told  Herr  Harder  what  I  wanted — a  chance  to 
do  big  roles  somewhere,  salary  no  particular  object, 
as  I  should  look  upon  the  experience  as  the  comple- 
tion of  my  training.  I  sang  for  him,  left  with  him 
—68— 


MY  FIRST  OPERATIC  CONTRACT  SIGNED 

my  repertoire  and  photographs,  and  he  promised  to 
let  me  know  of  the  first  opportunity  that  presented 
itself.  In  a  short  time,  he  sent  for  me  to  come  and 
see  the  Director  of  the  Theater  des  Westens,  a  Berlin 
theatre  which  at  that  time  was  the  home  of  a  sort 
of  popular  opera.  I  sang  for  the  manager,  and  he 
was  very  complimentary.  He  offered  to  engage  me 
at  once,  but  he  added,  curiously  enough,  that  I  was 
too  good  for  him!  They  gave  only  the  older  operas 
like  "Trovatore,"  on  which  the  copyright  had  ex- 
pired, and  of  these  only  the  ones  which  the  Hofoper 
did  not  give,  so  that  I  should  have  no  chance  to  sing 
my  big  parts.  At  the  same  time,  he  said  he  would 
very  much  like  to  have  me.  The  offer  did  not  suit 
my  plans,  and  I  decided  to  refuse  it.  I  went  on  with 
my  work  until  just  before  Christmas,  when  Herr 
Harder  made  me  a  second  proposal.  This  was  the 
position  of  first  contralto  in  the  garrison  town  of 
Metz  in  Alsace-Lorraine.  The  opera  was  a  municipal 
one,  that  is  it  was  subsidized  by  the  town,  they  played 
a  season  of  seven  months,  and  gave  a  large  repertoire 
including  some  of  the  Ring  dramas.  I  was  to  go 
down  there,  sing  for  the  management,  and  if  they 
liked  me,  begin  my  engagement  the  following  Septem- 
ber, giving  me  time  to  make  additions  to  my  German 
repertoire.  As  I  was  a  beginner  of  course  I  could 
not  give  the  usual  guest  performances. 
—69— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

Vorsingen  is  a  trying  ordeal.  The  great  theatres 
have  regular  days  for  hearing  aspirants,  but  this  was 
a  small  theatre.  The  appointment  is  usually  made  on 
the  stage,  sometimes  during,  sometimes  just  after  a 
rehearsal.  Groups  of  the  singers  regularly  engaged 
in  the  opera  house  stand  in  the  wings,  and  you  feel  a 
nameless  hostility  emanating  from  all  of  them,  espe- 
cially from  the  one  whom  you  are  going  to  try  to 
supplant.  The  theatre  is  Like  a  cavern,  and  the 
acoustic  is  of  course  totally  unknown  to  you.  Two 
or  three  pale  spots  down  in  the  orchestra  chairs  in- 
dicate the  whereabouts  of  the  director  and  perhaps 
the  stage  manager  and  first  Kapellmeister  who  have 
come  to  hear  you.  The  overhead  "rehearsal  lights" 
are  very  unbecoming  and  you  are  quite  conscious  of 
it.  If  you  are  to  sing  with  orchestra,  the  conductor 
presents  you  to  the  players,  "Meine  Herren,  Frdulein 

."     You  bow,  and  your  insides  slip  a  few  inches 

lower.  My  first  Vorsingen  was  with  the  piano.  It 
stood  at  one  side  of  the  stage,  and  a  whipper-snapper 
of  a  third  Kapellmeister  dashed  more  or  less  accu- 
rately into  the  prelude  of  the  second  aria  from  "Sam- 
son et  Dalila." 

Then  came  a  momentous  interview  in  the  Director's 
office.     I  had   sung   such  good   German,   thanks   to 

Frau ,  that  he  had  no  idea  that  I  understood  only 

about  three  words  in  five  of  what  he  said.  For  form's 
—70— 


MY  FIRST  OPERATIC  CONTRACT  SIGNED 

sake  he  kept  saying,  "Sie  verstehen  micli,  Frdulein?"' 
and  when  I  answered  "/«,"  he  was  satisfied.  Hia 
wife,  who  thought  she  spoke  English,  was  present,  and 
tried  to  say  a  great  deal,  but  my  German  proved  the 
more  serviceable  of  the  two.  I  gathered  that  I  was 
offered  a  two  season  contract,  to  sing  the  leading  con- 
tralto parts,  at  the  princely  salary  of  150  marks  a 
mondi!  (about  $35).  There  was  no  Spielgelt.  Sal- 
aries are  usually  divided  into  so  much  per  month 
down,  and  so  much  per  performance,  the  number  of 
performances  per  month  guaranteed;  that  is,  one  is 
paid  for  a  certain  number  whetlier  one  sings  them  or 
not,  and  any  performances  over  and  above  this  num- 
ber are  paid  extra.  If  a  performance  is  lost  by  one's 
own  fault,  through  illness  for  example,  the  Spielgelt 
for  that  performance  is  forfeited.  Three  days  ab- 
sence from  the  cast  through  illness,  even  though  one 
may  be  scheduled  to  sing  only  once  during  those  days, 
is  counted  as  one  Spielgelt. 

Illness  is,  in  fact,  almost  a  crime.  In  addition  to 
losing  your  money,  you  have  to  have  witnesses  to 
prove  that  you  are  really  ill,  for  theatre  directors  in 
Germany  are  a  suspicious  lot  and  take  nothing  for 
granted.  If  you  wake  on  the  morning  of  a  perform- 
ance with  laryngitis,  that  dread  enemy  of  the  voice, 
or  if  you  fall  downstairs  on  your  way  to  the  theatre 
and  sprain  your  ankle,  you  must  notify  the  theatre 
—71— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

before  a  certain  hour  in  the  day,  perhaps  ten  or  twelve, 
or  four  o'clock,  that  you  cannot  sing  that  night. 
Your  word  for  it  alone  won't  do.  Every  theatre  has 
special  doctors  on  its  list,  and  you  must  call  in  one 
of  these,  whether  he  is  your  regular  physician  or  not. 
He  makes  an  examination  and  gives  you  a  signed 
statement  that  you  are  unable  to  appear,  adding,  if 
the  disorder  be  serious,  how  many  days  it  will  be  in 
his  opinion,  before  you  can  return  to  work.  It  often 
happens  that  the  man  most  experienced  in  treating 
your  illness,  the  best  throat  specialist  in  town,  for 
example,  is  not  on  the  books  as  "Theater-Arzt,"  and 
then  if  you  wish  to  be  treated  by  him,  you  sometimes 
have  trouble  with  the  theatre  doctor.  In  the  theatre 
in  which  I  was  first  engaged,  I  had  a  disagreeable 
experience  of  this  kind.  I  was  ill  with  bronchitis, 
and  sent  word  to  the  theatre  the  day  before,  that  I 
should  not  be  able  to  sing  Marta,  in  "Faust,"  on 
the  night  scheduled  for  it.  I  had  already  committed 
the  deadly  crime  of  illness  once  before  that  season, 
and  this  time  my  defection  was  particularly  annoy- 
ing to  the  management  because  they  had  to  get  a 
guest  for  "Faust"  anyway,  and  they  would  be  forced 
to  send  posthaste  for  another  to  sing  the  Nurse. 
Their  irritation  with  me  was  equalled,  if  not  sur- 
passed, by  that  of  the  regular  theatre  doctor,  whose 
professional  honour  had  been  outraged  the  last  time 
—72— 


MY  FIRST  OPERATIC  CONTRACT  SIGNED 

by  my  insistence  upon  tlie  services  of  a  very  clever 
throat  specialist  who  lived  in  the  town,  and  whose 
aid  I  had  had  the  bad  taste  to  prefer  to  his  own. 
Between  them,  I  was  the  com  between  the  upper  and 
nether  millstone.  Next  day  the  theatre  sent  word 
that  they  would  accept  nothing  but  a  certificate  from 
their  own  doctor,  and  the  doctor  shortly  after  ap- 
peared at  my  bedside.  I  could  hardly  speak  out  loud, 
but  managed  to  whisper  a  request  that  he  would  write 
me  an  "Attest"  for  three  days.  To  my  surprise  he 
began  to  hem  and  haw,  and  finally  stammered  out: 
"There  is  really  no  reason  in  my  opinion,  why  you 
shouldn't  sing  this  evening!"  I  was  so  furious  I 
saw  red.     I  sat  up  in  bed,  and  whispered  savagely: 

"You  say  I  can  sing  tonight!  Very  well,  get  out 
of  my  room,  and  I'll  go  to  the  theatre  and  sing  this 
evening,  with  my  voice  in  this  condition,  and  you 
will  be  responsible  for  the  consequences!"  He  got 
up,  twisting  his  hat  in  his  hands,  and  stammering 
something.  I  simply  fixed  my  eyes  on  him,  and 
fairly  glared  him  out  of  the  room.  Then  I  dressed 
like  a  hurricane  and  rushed  to  the  director's  office. 

"I  have  come  to  sing  Marta"  I  announced 
hoarsely. 

"Oh!  liebes  Frdulein "  began  the  director,  posi- 
tively scared  by  my  pale  face  and  furious  eyes,  "0/ 
course  we  don't  want  you  to  sing  when  you  are  so 
—73— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

hoarse.     Doctor was  quite  mistaken;  please  go 

home  and  take  care  of  yourself.  We'll  get  a  guest 
for  the  Nurse  at  once!" 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "I  will  go  home  if  you  say 

so;  but  remember  Doctor says  I  can  sing,  and 

I  am  ready  to  do  so  on  his  responsibility." 

I  went  back  after  my  illness  to  see  the  director, 
who  to  my  surprise  began  to  attack  me  violently 
about  my  absence.  He  stormed,  and  thumped  the 
desk,  and  would  listen  to  nothing  I  said.  I  tried  to 
tell  him  he  had  no  right  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way, 
as  I  had  really  been  ill,  and  had  always  done  my 
duty  when  well.  He  raved  back  that  I  had  not  done 
my  duty,  and  it  seemed  to  me  so  futile  to  argue,  that 
I  walked  out  without  answering  and  left  him  raving. 
I  went  home  and  stayed  there  for  five  days,  and  at 
the  end  of  that  time  the  director  sent  his  secretary 
"to  explain"  and  ask  me  to  return  to  my  duty.  It 
was  an  awkward  interview  for  him,  poor  man,  so  I 
let  him  off  easily,  graciously  accepted  the  somewhat 
disguised  apology,  and,  as  I  was  quite  recovered  and 
eager  to  sing  again,  signified  my  willingness  to  ap- 
pear the  following  night. 

To   return   to   my   first   contract. — There   was   a 

formidable  list  of  roles  which  I  must  agree  to  have 

ready,  and  the  director  also  insisted  on  my  studying 

with  a  certain  well-known  woman  teacher  in  Berlin! 

—74— 


MY  FIRST  OPERATIC  CONTRACT  SIGNED 

I  conveyed  to  him  as  well  as  I  could,  that  I  would 
settle  all  tliis  witli  my  agent,  as  I  had  no  intention 
of  agreeing  to  all  of  it,  and  was  afraid  to  trust  my 
German  to  say  so  diplomatically.  He  added,  "Of 
course  you  are  too  good  for  us,  Fraulein."  This 
was  the  second  time  I  had  been  told  I  was  too  good 
for  an  engagement.  Every  one  seemed  to  think  I 
ought  to  aim  at  a  secondary  position  in  one  of  the 
big  opera  houses,  rather  than  a  leading  one  in  a 
smaller  place.  The  prospect  of  singing  pages  or 
confidants  in  a  capital  city,  with  perhaps  one  good 
role  in  a  season,  did  not  meet  my  needs  at  all ;  but  no 
one  seemed  to  sympathize  with  my  ideas.  I  wanted 
to  make  a  career  in  Germany,  as  if  I  were  a  German 
singer,  having  my  own  recognized  place  in  the  opera 
house  in  which  I  was  engaged,  singing  the  big  roles 
by  right,  without  intriguing  or  fighting  for  them. 

On  returning  to  Berlin,  I  wrote  to  Herr  Harder 
that  I  would  learn  a  certain  specified  number  of  roles 
in  addition  to  those  I  already  knew,  making  about 
twelve  in  all,  and  ignored  the  singing-teacher  proposi- 
tion altogether  as  I  had  formed  the  intention  of  going 
to  coach  with  Jean  de  Reszke.  On  these  terms  the 
contract  was  returned  to  me  signed  by  the  director, 
and  I  was  engaged. 


—75— 


w 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MY   ONE    LONE    IMPROPOSITION 

^'"WfY  HEN  I  make  my  debut"  was  the  phrase 
that  I  had  heard  so  often  on  the  lips  of 
my  American  fellow  students.  Each  one 
had  chosen  her  opera  house,  and  decided  in  which 
role  she  would  dazzle  a  clamouring  public.  Some- 
times one  more  modest  would  choose  Monte  Carlo  in 
preference  to  Paris,  or  if  she  intended  to  make  a 
career  in  Germany,  she  might  hesitate  between  the 
rival  merits  of  Dresden  and  Berlin.  But  that  the 
theatre  should  be  one  of  the  half-dozen  leading  ones 
in  the  world,  and  the  role  her  favourite,  were  fore- 
gone conclusions  before  she  left  America. 

In  this  respect,  I  quite  shattered  the  tradition  of 
the  prima  donna,  for  I  sang  my  first  part  in  a  small 
provincial  German  opera  house,  at  twenty-four  hours' 
notice,  and  it  was  one  of  those  which  I  have  least 
pleasure  in  singing.  I  remember  that  a  well-known 
American  writer,  living  in  Paris,  said  patronizingly 
to  my  mother  a  propos  of  my  first  appearance,  "Let 
us  hope  that  she  will  make  a  real  debut  later,  for  this 
—76— 


I      CARMEN    AS    I    USED    TO    DRESS    IT 


MY  ONE  LONE  IMPROPOSITION 

can  hardly  be  called  one,  can  it?"  "Well,  after  all," 
answered  my  mother,  "who  knows  where  most  of  the 
great  singers  of  today  made  their  debuts?" 

Contemporary  fiction  is  full  of  opera  singing  hero- 
ines who  jump  into  fame  in  a  single  night,  like  Mi- 
nerva springing  full  armed  from  the  head  of  Jupiter, 
Well,  perhaps  some  of  them  do  so — ^but  I  have  never 
met  a  singer,  even  of  the  highest  international  repu- 
tation, who  has  not  had  some  dark  checkers  of  disap- 
pointment in  his  career.  All  his  clouds  may  have 
had  silver  linings,  but  sometimes  the  silver  gets  mighty 
tarnished  before  he  succeeds  in  struggling  through 
the  cloud,  and  sometimes  another  singer  gets  through 
first  and  steals  the  silver  outright.  I  cannot  say  that 
I  have  ever  been  in  great  danger  morally  on  the 
stage,  but  my  courage,  my  nerve,  has  been  sometimes 
severely  threatend,  and  I  have  needed  to  summon  the 
most  dogged  determination  to  keep  it  from  failing  al- 
together. I  feel  sure  that  all  successful  singers  share 
my  experience  in  greater  or  less  degree,  especially 
those  who  have  been  trained  in  foreign  countries. 
Not  all  of  them,  by  any  means,  have  been  through  as 
severe  a  school  as  mine;  few  American  singers  at  any 
rate,  have  made  a  career  in  a  foreign  country  exactly 
as  if  they  had  been  a  native  of  it.  Many  have  been 
engaged  for  special  roles  in  one  of  the  larger  opera 
houses,  and  after  several  years  of  experience,  have 
—77— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

sung  but  a  few  parts,  all  of  which  have  been  those 
most  suited  to  them.  I  have  sung,  on  the  contrary, 
tlie  entire  repertoire  of  a  typical  German  opera  house, 
where  operas  are  regularly  given  of  which  the  Metro- 
politan audience  has  never  even  heard. 

In  my  first  season,  I  sang  in  all  fifteen  different 
roles  in  the  first  seven  months  of  my  career.  I  have 
appeared  in  eighty-five,  ranging  from  the  Wagner 
music  dramas  to  the  "Merry  Widow"  and  singing 
many  of  the  roles  in  three  difi'erent  languages.  It 
has  been  "the  strenuous  life"  in  its  severest  form,  but 
I  do  not  regret  any  of  it,  nor  feel  that  my  effort  has 
been  wasted,  for  I  know  that  I  understand  my  metier, 
comprehensively  and  in  detail,  and  nothing  can  take 
away  the  satisfaction  of  that. 

The  beginning  of  the  season  found  my  sister  and 
myself  in  the  town  of  Metz,  as  according  to  contract 
we  had  arrived  six  days  before  the  opening.  The 
weather  was  hot  and  dusLy,  and  the  town  seemed  de- 
serted, for  the  regiments  which  gave  it  life  and  colour 
was  still  away  at  the  Autumn  manoeuvres.  We  felt 
very  forlorn  at  first,  strangers  in  a  strange  land  with 
a  vengeance,  and  without  the  least  idea  of  what  the 
immediate  future  might  hold  for  us.  My  German 
had  improved  considerably  since  my  interview  with 
the  director,  but  my  sister  did  not  know  one  word. 
Luckily  for  her  there  was  almost  as  much  French 
—78— 


MY  ONE  LONE  IMPROPOSITION 

spoken  in  the  town  as  German.  There  were  many 
shops  of  absolutely  French  character,  where  she  was 
treated  with  great  consideration  as  coming  from  Paris. 
Even  the  officials  of  the  town,  the  post  office  employes, 
custom  officers,  and  others  with  whom  she  came  in 
contact,  though  rather  deaf  in  their  French  ear,  would 
make  shift  to  understand  her  if  necessary,  adding  an 
extra  touch  of  rigidity  to  their  already  sufficiently 
severe  manner,  in  order  to  nip  any  "French  familiar- 
ity" in  the  bud. 

We  went  to  the  hotel  that  had  been  recommended 
to  us,  as  the  principal  one  in  the  town  was  in  the 
process  of  reconstruction  and  swarmed  with  plaster- 
ers and  carpenters.  It  was  rather  a  dreadful  place, 
with  enormous  dark  rooms,  dingily  furnished  with 
heavy  old-fashioned  furniture;  but  it  was  very  near 
the  theatre  and  as  we  meant  to  find  lodgings  later,  we 
tried  not  to  be  depressed  by  its  gloominess. 

Of  course,  the  first  thing  we  did  was  to  visit  the 
theatre.  To  reach  it  one  crossed  a  bridge  over  the 
river,  picturesquely  bordered  with  old  overhanging 
houses,  then  a  cobblestone  "Platz,"  and  there,  rather 
shabby  but  still  quite  imposing,  it  stood.  On  the 
way  I  read  my  name  for  the  first  time  on  a  German 
poster,  with  a  distinct  thrill.  I  knew  my  way  to 
the  stage-entrance,  and  through  it  to  the  Direktor's 
Bureau,  where  several  shocks  awaited  me.  I  learned 
—79— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

that  the  man  who  had  engaged  me  had  been  super- 
seded by  a  new  one,  who  had  not  yet  arrived.  Mat- 
ters were  in  charge  of  the  stage  manager,  a  huge, 
towering  creature,  with  a  great  bass  voice,  who  was 
a  rather  remarkable  actor.  He  had  come  down  in 
the  world,  having  begun  life  as  a  cavalry  officer, 
and  he  had  strange  gleams  of  the  gentleman  about 
him,  even  then.  He  was,  by  the  way,  the  one  man 
in  the  profession  who  ever  made  me  a  questionable 
offer.  He  grew  to  admire  me  very  much  as  time  went 
on,  and  one  day,  after  I  had  been  there  some  time,  he 
asked  me  to  sign  a  further  contract  with  the  theatre. 

"You'll  never  get  anything  very  much  better,"  he 
said,  "as  you  are  a  foreigner.  We'll  make  a  good 
contract  with  you,  and  perhaps,  later — who  knows? 
— you  may  have  a  'protection  salary.'  " 

He  paused  to  see  the  effect  of  his  proposal,  and 
was  met  with  absolute  non-comprehension  on  my  part, 
as  I  really  did  not  understand,  at  the  time,  the  German 
words  he  was  using.  He  dropped  his  proposal  there 
and  then,  and  the  affair  had  no  unpleasant  conse- 
quences for  me,  as  he  never  referred  to  it  again. 
And  that  is  the  single  instance  of  tliat  sort  which  I 
have  encountered.  Nevertheless,  I  might  possibly 
have  had  further  trouble  with  him,  for  my  appearance 
really  seemed  to  appeal  to  him  very  much,  later  in  the 
winter.  Just  before  Christmas,  however,  he  died,  al- 
—80— 


MY  ONE  LONE  IMPROPOSITION 

most  overnight,  as  we  were  in  the  midst  of  rushing  a 
production  of  "Trompeter  von  Sakkingen."  He  had 
informed  me  on  Friday  night  that  I  should  have  to 
sing  the  Countess  on  the  following  Tuesday.  I  did 
not  know  a  word  of  it,  and  was  on  the  way  on  Satur- 
day morning  to  get  the  score,  when  I  heard  that  he  was 
dangerously  ill — and  by  Sunday  morning  he  was 
dead.  Poor  man!  he  had  some  good  qualities  and 
real  talents,  but  it  turned  out  that  he  was  a  great 
scoundrel  and  had  been  robbing  the  direction  left  and 
right,  under  the  pretence  of  assisting  the  new  director. 
This  new  director,  who  had  never  even  heard  my 
voice,  had  been  a  well-known  Wagnerian  singer  in 
his  day  and  intended  to  take  some  of  the  principal 
baritone  roles  in  his  new  position,  to  the  intense  dis- 
gust of  the  regular  Heldenbariton.  All  the  outstand- 
ing contracts  had  been  taken  over  in  his  name.  This 
sudden  change  of  management,  during  vacation  time, 
made  a  little  trouble  for  me  as  it  happened.  None 
of  the  present  staff  had  heard  me  sing.  They  knew 
only  that  I  was  a  foreigner  without  experience,  heard 
that  my  conversational  German  was  not  yet  perfect 
(a  much  rarer  accomplishment  than  a  perfect  accent 
in  singing),  and  therefore  doubted  my  ability  to  do 
the  work  of  the  first  contralto.  So  they  had  engaged 
a  native,  which  meant  that  it  was  "up  to  me"  to  prove 
myself  capable  at  the  first  opportunity  or  lose  the 
—81— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

chance  of  doing  first  roles  or  perhaps  be  dismissed 
altogether. 

Our  hotel  was  impossible  for  a  long  stay,  and,  of 
course,  after  my  Berlin  experience,  my  first  idea  was 
a  good  German  pension.  We  went  to  the  Verkehrs- 
verein — the  Information  Bureau  which  is  a  feature 
of  all  German  towns,  and  asked  for  a  pension  address. 
The  man  in  charge  shook  his  head.  There  was  only 
one  such  place,  he  said,  and  he  feared  that  it  would 
not  suit  us,  but  we  might  go  and  see.  We  went  ac- 
cordingly, and  found  a  nice-enough  looking  house  in 
the  newest  quarter,  quite  tlie  other  side  of  the  town 
from  the  theatre.  The  inside  of  the  house,  however, 
told  its  own  story — concrete  floors,  whitewashed  walls 
with  garish  religious  prints  on  them,  and  deal  furni- 
ture with  red  and  white  table  covers  much  in  evidence. 
The  bedrooms  were  cell-like  and  garnished  with  mot- 
toes, while  a  Bible  and  candlestick  by  each  bedside 
were  the  only  other  decorations. 

"What  is  this  institution?"  we  asked. 

"It  is  the  German  Young  Ladies  Evangelical  Home, 
for  Protestants  only,"  we  were  told. 

We  thanked  the  Matron,  and  decided  that  we  were 
neither  German,  Evangelical  nor  young  enough  for 
such  a  home,  even  though  we  might  be  ladies  and 
Protestants. 

Disappointed  in  our  hope  of  finding  a  pension,  we 
—82— 


MY  ONE  LONE  IMPROPOSITION 

returned  to  our  friend  of  the  Information  Bureau,  this 
time  to  ask  for  addresses  of  furnished  rooms  with  a 
decent  landlady  to  attend  to  them  for  us.  He  shook 
his  head  once  more — it  was  very  difficult  in  a  garri- 
son town,  he  said,  to  be  certain  of  the  character  of  a 
house  which  had  furnished  rooms  to  let. 

"But  where  do  the  artists  of  the  theatres  usually 
live?"  we  asked. 

"Oh!  they  either  take  furnished  rooms,  or  bring 
their  own  furniture,"  he  answered,  "or  live  in  the 
smaller  hotels.  But  then  they  are  Germans  and 
used  to  judging  in  such  cases.  There  is,  however,  an 
English  lady  living  here  who  knows  the  town  thor- 
oughly, and  you  had  better  go  to  her  and  get  her  to 
find  rooms  for  you." 

As  we  felt  tliat  we  could  not  possibly  ask  a  totally 
unknown  Englishwoman  to  find  lodgings  for  us,  my 
sister  set  out  on  the  hunt  alone.  As  a  foreigner  speak- 
ing no  German,  and  a  woman  looking  for  rooms  all 
by  herself,  she  was  received  in  a  very  curious  manner 
by  most  of  the  landladies  she  visited,  and  evidently 
looked  upon  with  strong  suspicion.  We  were  getting 
desperate,  as  the  time  of  my  debut  was  coming  nearer 
and  nearer  and  we  were  still  unsettled.  Finally  we 
resolved  to  throw  ourselves  upon  the  mercy  of  the  un- 
known Englishwoman  after  all,  and  wrote  her  a  note 
begging  her  assistance  in  finding  two  furnished  rooms 
—83— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

near  the  theatre,  with  a  Hausfrau  who  would  look 
after  them  and  serve  our  breakfast.  We  had  to  find 
a  furnished  apartment  as  we  were  not  like  some  of 
my  colleagues  who  possess  their  own  furniture  and 
pass  their  lives  in  a  sort  of  singing  journey  through 
the  country,  always  surrounded  by  their  own  house- 
hold gods. 


— 84r— 


CARMEN    AS    I    NOW    DRESS    IT 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   MAKINGS  OF   A   SMALL   MUNICIPAL   OPERA 
HOUSE 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  before  we  were  up, 
our  English  friend  kindly  came  to  see  us,  and 
with  her  help  we  soon  discovered  just  what  we 
were  looking  for,  in  an  eminently  respectable  house, 
where  the  Hausfrau  was  the  wife  of  a  policeman,  so 
that  we  were  under  the  shadow  of  the  majesty  of  the 
law. 

A  young  doctor  had  the  rooms,  but  she  assured 
us  that  he  was  moving  immediately,  and  that  we  might 
send  our  trunks  the  following  day.  We  duly  arrived 
the  next  afternoon  with  an  avalanche  of  baggage  and 
found  that  the  poor  young  man  had  had  no  intention 
of  leaving  before  the  end  of  the  month  and  had  even 
invited  guests  for  that  very  evening!  Floods  of  Ger- 
man ensued  between  him  and  the  Hausfrau,  while 
we  sat  philosophically  on  our  trunks  in  the  hall  and 
waited.  Presently  she  emerged,  rather  heated  of 
countenance,  to  say  that  it  was  all  arranged,  and  to  be- 
gin moving  our  things  into  the  bedroom.  The  doctor 
—85— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

called  us  into  the  sitting-room,  waived  aside  our  ex- 
planations and  thanks  for  his  gallantry,  and  shutting 
all  the  doors  mysteriously,  proceeded  to  the  only 
revenge  in  his  power — to  defame  the  character  and 
impugn  the  honesty  of  our  future  hostess. 

"Keep  things  locked,  I  warn  you,  keep  them 
locked!"  he  repeated  earnestly,  all  the  while  cram- 
ming books,  bottles  and  garments  promiscuously  into 
a  trunk. 

We  made  allowances  for  his  need  of  reprisal,  and 
took  his  warning  with  a  grain  of  salt;  and  as  a  matter 
of  fact  our  landlady  never  touched  anything  of  ours 
except  what  she  doubtless  considered  her  proper  "com- 
mission" levied  upon  our  coal  and  kerosene.  She 
was  quite  satisfactory  on  the  whole,  except  that  she 
would  quarrel  very  noisily  with  her  policeman  from 
time  to  time,  or  rather  he  with  her.  When  we  re- 
monstrated and  said  that  we  could  not  stand  it  and 
that  she  shouldn't,  she  answered  that  she  would  be 
only  too  glad  to  get  out  of  her  bargain,  but  that  she 
had  put  her  money  into  this  marriage  and  therefore 
had  to  stay  in  it! 

Her  small  boy  was  named  Karl,  but  she  always 
called  him  "Schweinsche'."  She  had  a  few  wisps  of 
greyish  drab  hair  wound  round  a  sort  of  steering- 
wheel  of  celluloid  in  the  back.  On  Christmas  my 
sister  hunted  for  hours  for  a  present  for  her,  and 
—86— 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 


finally  returned  with  a  magnificent  set  of  rhinestone- 
set  haircombs.  I  have  always  wondered  what  the 
poor  woman  did  with  them,  as  her  hair  could  not 
have  covered  an  eighth  of  their  prongs. 

The  reason  for  the  summary  dismissal  of  her 
former  tenant  was,  of  course,  the  extra  money  that 
she  made  out  of  our  being  foreigners  who  did  not 
know  the  tariff,  and  the  fact  that  there  were  two  of 
us  to  be  served.  We  paid  sixty  marks,  fifteen  dol- 
lars, a  month  for  the  rooms,  service  and  breakfast  of 
coffee  and  rolls,  and  little  as  this  seems,  I  don't  sup- 
pose the  doctor  had  paid  a  penny  over  forty.  Our 
colleagues  thought  us  spendthrifts  and  gullible  for- 
eigners, as  they  paid  about  thirty  marks  and  got  their 
own  breakfast. 

My  sister  had  two  chafing  dishes  on  which  she 
cooked  our  supper,  but  the  two  o'clock  dinner  was  a 
problem.  I  was  too  tired  after  the  strenuous  morn- 
ing rehearsals  beginning  at  ten  o'clock,  and  the  strain 
of  trying  to  follow  all  the  directions  I  received  in 
German,  to  go  to  the  Hotels  or  restaurants  for  din- 
ner, as  most  of  my  colleagues  did.  Our  landlady 
suggested  that  she  should  have  it  fetched  from  the 
officers'  mess  of  the  crack  cavalry  regiment,  whose 
barracks  were  near  by.  She  said  this  was  a  usual 
arrangement.  We  bought  a  sort  of  tier  of  enamelled 
dishes,  fitting  into  each  other  and  carried  in  a  kind  of 
—87— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


wickerwork  handle.     One  contained  soup,  the  next 
meat,  the  third  vegetable,  while  bread  or  dessert  re- 
posed in  the  top.     We  can  testify  that  even  crack 
regiments  are  not  unduly  pampered  in  the  Fatherland, 
for  anything  plainer,  or  more  unappetizing  than  these 
dinners,   I  have  never  tried  to  eat.     Perhaps  they 
gained  something  when  served  hot  in  the  officers' 
Casino,  but  we  found  it  almost  impossible  to  down 
them,  eaten  out  of  our  enamel-ware  dishes.     After  a 
time,  when  the  newness  of  everydiing  in  the  theatre 
had  worn  off  a  little,  and  I  began  "to  feel  my  feet," 
we  arranged  to  dine  at  the  hotel  where  many  of  the 
colleagues  met  daily.     This  was  a  far  better  plan, 
as,  in  addition  to  a  really  hot  meal,  we  had  a  splen- 
did opportunity  to  improve  our  German.     I  was  nat- 
urally making  rapid  progress  in  it,  but  my  sister 
still  had  to  confine  herself  to  the  shops  where  they 
understood   French.     One  day  when   I   came  home 
from  rehearsal,  she  told  me  that  our  Hausfrau  had 
repeated  to  her  a  long  piece  of  gossip  in  German. 
Seeing  by  my  sister's  face  that  she  had  not  under- 
stood, the  woman  said,  "Oh,  you  don't  understand, 
Fraulein.     Well,  I'll  say  it  all  over  again  in  French." 
Then  she  proceeded  to  repeat  it  again,  very  loudly  and 
slowly — in  German! 

Of  course  it  is  rather  dreadful  to  be  called  just 
"Fraulein"  by  your  landlady  in  Germany,  but  the 
—88— 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 

social  standing  of  the  singers  and  players  in  a  provin- 
cial theatre  is  usually  not  high  enough  to  warrant 
anything  else.  A  position  in  an  opera  house  in  a 
capital  city,  or  in  a  Hoftheater,  confers  social  im- 
portance enough  upon  its  holder  to  entitle  her  to  the 
prefix  gnddiges  (gracious)  before  the  ignominious 
Frdulein,  which  in  society  is  properly  used  to  desig- 
nate only  a  governess,  a  companion,  or  a  saleswoman 
in  a  shop. 

Titles  and  forms  of  address  are  a  ticklish  subject 
in  the  Fatherland,  at  any  time.  It  is  hard  to  compre- 
hend the  mazes  of  male  progression  from  the  simple 
"Rat,"  through  the  subsequent  variations  of  Hofrat 
(court  councillor),  Geheimer  Hofrat  (privy  court 
councillor),  Geheimrat  (privy  councillor),  Wirk- 
licher  Geheimrat  (really  truly  privy  councillor),  to 
the  lofty  dignity  of  Excellenz. 

Old-fashioned  ladies  used  to  employ  the  feminized 
version  of  their  husband's  titles,  and  I  once  knew 
an  old  dame  who  insisted  upon  being  addressed  as 
"Frau  Oberlandgerichtsrdthin."  The  bourgeoisie 
used  to  copy  the  aristocracy  in  this  respect,  and  at 
the  afternoon  Kaffeeklatsch,  Frau  Hofcondittor  Meyer 
would  inquire  about  the  health  of  Herr  Strassenbahns- 
inspektor  Braun,  from  his  wife  the  Frau  Strassen- 
bahnsinspektorin  (street  car  inspectoress).  Modem 
life  is  too  crowded  perhaps  for  such  lengthy  addresses, 
—89— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

but  Frau  Meyer  and  Herr  Braun  are  certainly  less 
picturesque  cognomens.  Among  the  artistocracy  the 
proper  titles  and  forms  of  address  have  many  pitfalls 
for  the  foreigner,  though  I  used  to  dodge  them  fairly 
successfully  by  addressing  every  woman  older  than 
myself  as  ''Gnddige  Frau'  irrespective  of  her  "han- 
dle," and  the  men  by  no  title  at  all,  except  in  the  case 
of  a  prince  not  of  royal  blood,  who  has  to  be  called 
by  the  mouth-filling  courtesy  title  of  Durchlaucht. 

Of  course  in  letter-writing  this  way  round  is  not  al- 
ways possible,  and  here  the  complications  are  simply 
terrifying.  The  salutation  of  a  lady  without  any 
title  at  all  ranges  all  the  way  from  "Wertes  Fraulein" 
(Worthy  Miss),  almost  an  insult  to  a  person  of  any 
gentility,  to  the  punctilious  "Hochvereherte  und 
gnadige  Frau"  (Highly  honoured  and  gracious  lady) 
of  high  society.  Even  the  envelope  provides  a  sub- 
tle form  of  insult  or  of  flattery.  In  Germany  one  is 
simply  born,  well-bom,  highly  well-bom,  or  high 
born  as  the  case  may  be.  If  you  are  rightly  entitled 
to  the  third,  how  irritating  to  be  publicly  branded  on 
the  outside  of  a  letter  as  only  well-bom.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  you  really  belong  among  the  merely 
bom,  what  a  delicate  attention  to  be  acknowledged 
"Hochwohlgeborene'"  for  all  the  world,  including  the 
Portiers  Frau  to  see!  Shops  in  writing  to  you  (as 
long  as  your  credit  is  good)  love  to  employ  the  latter 
—90— 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 

on  the  envelope,  repeat  it  in  the  body  of  the  letter 
which  always  begins  "Highly  honoured  and  gracious 
Miss"  and  sign  themselves  "Mit  Vorziiglicher  Hoch- 
achtung" — "with  magnificent  respect."  Friends,  of 
course,  call  you  just  Fraulein  So-and-so,  as  we  should 
say  "Miss  Brown,"  except  if  they  are  young  men, 
when  they  usually  stick  to  the  "gracious  Miss."  You 
must  never  inquire  for  the  members  of  a  person's 
family  without  the  Mr.,  Mrs.,  or  Miss  being  added: 
"How  is  your  Frau  Mother,  Herr  Father,  or  Fraulein 
Sister?"  There  is  a  curious  phrase  for  parents — 
"How  are  your  Herr  en  Parents?"  being  the  strictly 
correct  form  of  question. 

Yes!  Etiquette  is  very  complicated  in  Germany 
and  requires  a  great  deal  of  study  from  the  "Out- 
lander." 

To  return  to  tlie  theatre — we  expected  that  my  sister 
would  have  the  run  of  my  dressing-room,  and  that 
she  might  be  present  at  the  rehearsals.  We  found  on 
the  contrary  that  the  most  rigorous  rules  were  en- 
forced to  forbid  entrance  to  the  theatre  to  any  one 
not  a  regular  member  of  the  staff.  No  one  else  was 
allowed  to  pass  the  porter's  lodge.  There  were  regu- 
lar dressers  provided  by  the  theatre,  and  my  sister 
was  present  only  once  or  twice  at  rehearsals  during 
my  two  seasons  in  Metz  and  then  only  by  special 
request. 

—91— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


The  rehearsals  for  the  next  day  were  posted  at  the 
stage  door.  They  were  not  printed  or  typed,  but 
written  in  German  script,  with  chalk  on  the  black- 
board. They  would  be  placed  there  at  six  o'clock 
every  evening,  and  my  sister  used  to  go  over  to  find  out 
for  me  what  they  were.  She  could  not  read  German 
script  at  all,  neither  could  I,  very  well;  so  she  used 
to  take  paper  and  pencil  and  laboriously  draw  every- 
thing on  the  board,  chorus  calls  and  all,  for  fear  of 
missing  something.  Then,  letter  by  letter,  we  would 
puzzle  it  out,  and  find  out  the  hours  of  my  rehearsals, 
as  if  they  had  been  written  in  cipher.  She  was  al- 
ways present  at  my  performances. 

I  had  to  write,  "I  beg  in  the  most  polite  manner  for 
a  seat  for  my  sister  for  this  evening's  performance," 
and  drop  it  into  a  special  box  before  half  past  eleven 
in  the  morning.  Then  in  the  evening,  if  there  were  a 
vacant  place  in  the  orchestra  chairs,  she  would  have 
it.  On  Sundays  the  house  was  often  ausverkauft, 
sold  out,  so  we  generally  bought  a  seat  if  I  were  sing- 
ing on  that  night,  so  as  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  The 
prices  ranged  from  four  marks  for  box  seats,  to 
five  cents  in  the  gallery.  The  orchestra  chairs  cost 
three  marks  (75  cents),  but  nearly  every  one  had  an 
Abonnement,  or  sort  of  season  ticket,  which  made 
them  much  cheaper.  The  rates  for  officers  were  very 
low  indeed.  The  chief  cavalry  regiments  had  the 
—92— 


/ 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 

boxes  between  them,  and  the  less  important  lieutenants 
of  the  infantry  or  the  despised  engineers  had  seats 
in  the  first  balcony.  Years  ago,  in  the  old  unregen- 
erate  days,  these  boxes  full  of  young  cavalrymen 
furnished  almost  more  entertainment  than  the  stage. 
The  boxes  had  curtains  to  be  drawn  at  will,  and  the 
young  rascals  would  order  champagne  served  to 
them  there,  and  drink  toasts  loudly  to  their  favourite 
singers  in  the  midst  of  their  performances.  Some 
of  the  frail  fair  ones  of  the  town  would  visit  them 
behind  the  drawn  curtains,  and  there  were  high  times 
generally.  This  has  all  come  to  an  end,  gone  the 
road  of  other  equally  charming  old  customs,  and  I  saw 
very  little  misbehaviour  among  the  lieutenants,  except 
sometimes  when  the  provocation  was  really  too  strong 
for  them.  One  evening  a  very  solemn  young  White 
Dragoon,  over  six  feet  tall,  coming  in  in  the  half  dark- 
ness after  the  curtain  was  up,  missed  his  chair  and 
plumped  down,  sabre  and  all,  on  the  floor  of  the  box 
instead,  to  the  joy  of  his  comrades;  and  once  in  a 
Christmas  pantomime,  they  all  forgot  their  military 
dignity  at  the  spectacle  of  a  very  fat  young  chorus 
girl,  whom  bad  judgment  on  the  part  of  the  ballet 
mistress  had  costumed  most  realistically  for  the  part 
of  a  white  rabbit. 

Sunday  is  usually  chosen  for  the  first  night,  as  a 
larger  proportion  of  the  inhabitants  is  at  liberty  on 
—93— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

that  day.  At  our  theatre,  peformances  of  opera  were 
given  on  Sunday,  Tuesday,  Thursday  and  Friday 
nights,  with  plays  or  Possen  mit  Gesang  (farces  with 
singing)  on  alternate  nights.  The  bill  changed  every 
night,  but  each  standard  opera  was  repeated  three  or 
four  times  in  the  season.  New  operettas  like  the 
"Merry  Widow"  were  also  produced,  and,  if  success- 
ful, ran  eight  or  ten  times  during  the  seven  months 
of  the  season.  There  was  a  company  of  singers  con- 
sisting of  a  "high  dramatic"  soprano,  a  "young 
dramatic,"  a  coloratura,  and  an  "opera  soubrette," 
all  sopranos.  There  was  a  leading  contralto,  a  second 
contralto  to  do  the  very  small  parts,  who  was  usually 
a  volunteer  without  pay,  and  a  "comic  old  woman," 
who  also  took  part  in  the  plays.  There  was  some- 
times another  volunteer  soprano  to  do  pages  and  the 
like.  Then  there  was  the  "heroic  tenor,"  who  is  a 
sort  of  King  and  is  treated  by  the  management  with 
some  cf  the  ceremony  used  toward  royalty,  and  the 
lyric  tenor,  quite  humble  in  comparison,  and  a  tenor- 
buffo  for  "funny  parts,"  with  sometimes  a  special 
operetta  tenor  when  the  theatre  was  prospering. 
There  were  two  baritones,  "heroic"  and  lyric,  a  "seri- 
ous" and  a  "comic"  bass,  and  one  or  two  other  men 
of  more  or  less  anomalous  position  who  "fill  in"  and 
act  in  the  plays.  The  only  singers  who  never  did  any- 
thing but  sing,  were  the  two  "dramatic"  sopranos,  the 

—94r— 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 

first  contralto,  and  the  heroic  tenor  and  baritone. 
There  was  a  company  of  actors  besides  and  all  of 
these,  no  matter  what  their  standing,  were  expected 
to  appear  in  such  operas  as  "Tannhauser"  in  the  sing- 
ing contest,  in  the  church  scene  of  "Lohengrin,"  and 
as  Flora  s  guests  in  "Traviata,"  to  help  "dress  the 
stage." 

It  is  not  the  least  of  one's  troubles  as  a  beginner  to 
stand  on  the  stage  as  Ortrud,  perhaps,  and  see  these 
supercilious  real  actresses  come  filing  out  dressed  as 
court  beauties,  cynically  watching  your  attempt  at 
acting. 

Actors  have  their  proper  range  of  parts,  called 
Fach  in  Germany,  and  special  designations  like  the 
singers.  The  chief  of  them  are  the  Jugendlicher  Held 
or  Young  Hero,  corresponding  to  the  Heroic  Tenor, 
and  his  partner  the  Erste  Heldin.  Nearly  as  im- 
portant, however,  are  the  Erster  Liebhaber,  or  Young 
Lover,  and  the  Jugendliche  Liebhaberin  und  Erste 
Salondame — Young  Lovehaveress  and  First  Draw- 
ingroom  Lady.  There  are  the  Helden  Vater  and 
Heldin  Mutter,  the  Intrigant  or  Villain,  and  the  Bon 
Vivant  (pronounced  Bong  Vivong)  who  is  a  sort  of 
general  good  fellow  and  occasional  hero.  The  Erster 
Komiker  is  always  a  popular  figure  with  the  public 
and  has  his  subordinate  funnyman,  usually  much 
younger.  There  is  a  soubrette  to  do  the  saucy  maid 
—95— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


parts,  a  Naive,  what  we  should  call  Ingenue,  and  a 
Komische  Alte,  or  funny  old  woman;  several  "draw- 
ingroom  ladies"  and  "gentlemen"  and  minor  ''Char- 
gen  Spieler"  or  character  actors.  The  small  parts 
are  usually  filled  by  chorus  men  and  women,  and  the 
opera  soubrette  or  the  operetta  tenor,  have  to  double 
and  do  the  cheeky  maids  or  giggly  school  girls  and 
giddy  young  officers  in  the  plays.  Many  of  the  minor 
actors  were,  or  were  assumed  to  be,  sufficiently  mu- 
sical to  take  small  parts  in  operas  requiring  a  large 
cast,  appearing  as  Telramund's  four  nobles,  and  as 
Meister  in  the  first  act  of  "Meistersingers"  or  as 
competitors  in  the  Preissingen  in  "Tannhauser." 
The  opera  gains  very  much  by  having  these  experi- 
enced actors  in  the  small  roles. 

Our  chorus  was  composed  of  about  thirty  mem- 
bers, and  the  orchestra  of  from  forty  to  fifty,  re- 
inforced in  the  brass  and  wind  instruments  from  the 
local  military  bands.  Three  Kapellmeisters  held 
sway  over  them:  the  First  Kapellmeister  an  autocrat 
with  arbitrary  power  who  directed  the  important 
operas,  the  second  who  lead  the  old  stagers  like  "Mar- 
tha" and  "Trovatore"  and  the  operettas,  and  the  third 
who  was  usually  a  volunteer  learning  his  profession, 
and  who  acted  as  repetiteur  for  the  soloists  and 
directed  pantomimes,  the  songs  in  the  farces,  and 
"Haensel  und  Gretel"  once  a  year  if  he  was  good. 
—96— 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 

He  was  always  on  duty  during  performances  to  direct 
any  music  behind  the  scenes.  In  good  theatres  there 
are  several  of  these  young  men,  as  in  "Rheingold"  for 
example  each  Rhine  daughter  ought  to  have  one  to 
herself,  and  there  is  a  special  repetiteur  for  the 
chorus  or  chorus  master  besides. 

Our  ballet  was  composed  of  a  solo  dancer  and 
about  sixteen  coryphees,  directed  by  a  Balletmeis- 
terin  who  also  shared  the  leading  parts  with  the  solo 
dancer.  One  of  the  girls, — Irene,  was  a  big  hand- 
some creature  who  usually  danced  the  boy's  parts. 
She  had  a  little  girl  of  about  six,  who  had  apparently 
no  father.  During  the  second  year  I  was  told  one 
day:  "This  is  Irene's  wedding  day;  will  you  say 
something  to  her?"  It  appeared  she  and  her  clown 
husband  had  been  devoted  to  each  other  for  years, 
but  had  neglected  the  ceremony  as  they  neither  of 
them  could  earn  enough  alone  to  support  the  two. 
The  clown  ("August,"  of  course)  could  not  find  an 
engagement  in  the  theatre  and  so  diey  had  just  waited. 
He  had  just  returned  from  a  long  world  tour  and 
now  they  were  to  be  married.  Every  one  was  de- 
lighted. 

Last  but  not  least,   came  the   supers,   called   in 

Germany  Statisten,  who  held  spears  in  "Aida"  and 

returned  victorious  in  "Faust."     They  were  drawn 

from   the    infantry    regiments    and    received    thirty 

—97— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

pfennigs  (7%c)  a  night.  They  arrived  with  their 
Vnteroffizier  an  hour  before  they  were  wanted  and 
were  turned  into  a  big  room  to  be  made  into  war- 
riors, captives,  or  happy  peasantry.  The  result  was 
sometimes  amusing.  In  "Aida"  they  used  to  put  on 
their  pink  cotton  tights  over  their  underwear,  so  that 
one  saw  the  dark  outline  of  socks  and  the  garters 
gleaming  through,  and  they  all  kept  on  their  elastic- 
sided  military  boots,  with  the  tabs  to  pull  them  on  by, 
sticking  out  before  and  behind.  Fortunately  the  au- 
dience had  but  a  brief  glimpse  of  them  before  they 
were  ranked  in  a  conglomerate  mass  at  the  back  of 
the  stage.  Sometimes  on  our  walks  we  would  meet 
these  men  on  sentry  duty,  or  in  batches  with  their 
Vnteroffizier,  who  would  call  out,  "Au-gen  rechtsT 
(Eyes  right!)  and  give  us  the  officers'  salute  with 
mighty  grins  of  recognition. 

The  principals  of  the  opera  are  usually  talented 
young  singers  on  the  way  up,  or  older  singers  of 
some  reputation  on  the  way  down,  with  perhaps  a 
sprinkling  of  those  who  have  obtained  their  engage- 
ments by  influence.  The  contracts  are  usually  for 
from  two  to  three  years,  and  are  not  very  often  re- 
newed. The  talented  ones  go  on  to  better  engage- 
ments, and  it  is  "better  business"  for  the  theatre  to 
have  a  change  of  principals.  Great  favourites  re- 
main longer  unless  they  get  something  better.  Many 
—98— 


A  SMALL  MUNICIPAL  OPERA  HOUSE 

of  those  who  were  engaged  with  me  in  Metz  have 
made  careers.  Two  were  at  the  Charlottenburg 
Opera  House  in  Berlin  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war, 
and  one  in  Hamburg,  both  in  leading  positions.  One 
was  a  stage-manager  at  the  Volksoper  in  Vienna,  and 
one  teacher  in  a  conservatory. 


-99- 


CHAPTER  X 

MY  DEBUT  AND   BREAKING   INTO   HARNESS 

I  HAD  to  sing  Azucena,  my  first  part  on  any  stage, 
without  rehearsal.  The  reason  for  this  dawned 
upon  me  afterwards.  Though  I  sang  German 
well  by  this  time,  my  conversational  powers  still 
left  something  to  be  desired.  I  have  explained  that 
the  present  director  had  never  heard  my  voice;  no 
one  knew  of  what  I  was  capable,  and  they  quite  ex- 
pected that  I  would  prove  incompetent,  and  had  en- 
gaged a  native  bom  contralto  to  provide  for  this 
contingency. 

When  I  heard  one  evening,  that  I  should  have  to 
sing  Azucena  on  the  next,  I  confess  that  something 
rather  like  panic  assailed  me  for  a  few  minutes. 
The  stage  manager  called  me  onto  the  stage,  and 
spent  half  an  hour  in  showing  me  the  entrances  and 
exits,  and  giving  me  the  merest  outline  of  the  po- 
sitions. That  is  all  the  preparation  I  had  for  my 
so-called  debut.  The  other  members  of  the  cast  had 
sung  the  opera  together  many  times  the  year  before, 
which  made  the  performance  possible.  Tlie  lyric 
tenor  was  a  decent  enough  colleague,  though  an  ab- 
—100— 


BREAKING  INTO  HARNESS 

solute  peasant  in  behaviour,  with  an  extraordinary 
high  voice  which  was  rapidly  degenerating  from  mis- 
use. The  baritone  was  of  tlie  tried  and  true  type, 
and  a  great  favourite,  and  the  soprano  was  easy  to 
get  on  with.  They  were  all  nice  enough  to  me,  if 
somewhat  uninterested  and  indifferent,  for  I  had  had 
as  yet  so  little  to  do  with  them  that  we  hardly  knew 
each  otlier.  They  thought  me  a  rich  dilettante  at 
that  time  I  fancy.  I  was  so  horribly  nervous  all  that 
day  that  I  fainted  whenever  I  tried  to  stand  up,  and 
when  I  began  to  sing  my  sister  did  not  recognize  my 
voice.  However,  I  was  very  well  received  indeed, 
all  the  criticisms  the  next  day  were  favourable,  and 
there  was  no  question  after  that  as  to  who  should 
sing  the  leading  roles. 

It  was  fortunate  for  me  that  I  succeeded  in  pull- 
ing myself  together  sufficiently  to  make  a  success,  as 
at  that  time  the  old  system  of  Kiindigung  was  still  in 
force.  I  have  said  that  a  contract  was  not  valid  until 
the  singer  had  successfully  completed  the  number  of 
guest  performances  stated  therein.  I  had  not  been 
called  upon  for  these  Gastspiele  because  I  was  a  be- 
ginner, but  they  are  almost  invariably  included  in  the 
contract.  Now-a-days  your  engagement  is  settled 
after  you  have  successfully  made  these  trial  appear- 
ances, and  you  then  remain  in  that  engagement  for 
a  full  season;  and  the  management  must  let  you 
—101— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

know  before  February  first  (sometimes  January 
first)  whetlier  you  are  to  be  re-engaged  or  not.  This 
is  in  order  to  give  the  singer  time  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  the  coming  season.  When  I  was  engaged 
in  Metz  the  management  of  a  theatre  had  the  right 
to  dismiss  any  singer  after  three  weeks,  whether  he 
had  made  his  guest  appearances  beforehand  or  not, 
if  he  had  failed  in  that  time  to  make  good  with  the 
public.  He  was  also  liable  to  dismissal  after  his 
first  appearance,  if  he  proved  quite  impossible.  This 
was  what  they  were  expecting  in  my  case.  The  ar- 
rangement was  most  unfair  to  the  poor  singer,  leav- 
ing him  stranded  (with  practically  no  chance  of  work 
that  year)  after  he  had  moved  all  his  possessions  and 
thought  himself  established  for  the  season.  The 
big  artists'  society,  the  Genossenschaft,  which  is  the 
only  protective  institution  for  singers  in  Germany, 
has  at  last  succeeded  in  abolishing  this  unjust  con- 
dition of  affairs.  There  was  a  flagrant  case  of  this 
kind  in  the  theatre  during  the  first  three  weeks  of  my 
engagement.  The  "high  dramatic"  soprano  had  fin- 
ished the  first  three  weeks  of  her  engagement,  during 
which  she  had  had  to  learn  two  new  parts,  providing 
costumes,  at  her  own  expense,  for  a  role  which  she 
had  not  expected  to  have  to  sing.  She  had  had  a 
fair  success  and  thought  herself  secure.  In  the 
meantime,  the  management  had  had  no  idea  of  keep- 
—102— 


BREAKING  INTO  HARNESS 

ing  her  on  permanently,  but  had  merely  engaged  her 
to  fill  in  the  time,  while  they  were  waiting  for  an- 
other singer,  who  was  filling  an  out-of-season  en- 
gagement elsewhere,  and  could  not  report  for  three 
weeks.  When  she  was  free,  they  told  the  first  one 
that  she  had  not  pleased  sufl&ciently  and  dismissed 
her.  The  good  theatres  did  not  take  advantage  of 
this  privilege  of  course,  even  while  it  still  existed. 

My  second  role  was  a  very  small  one,  one  of  the 
court  ladies  of  "Les  Huguenots."  A  native  first  con- 
tralto would  probably  not  have  been  asked  to  do  such 
a  small  part,  but  there  being  no  regular  part  for  my 
voice  in  the  opera,  I  think  they  were  glad  to  use 
my  good  stage  appearance,  and  of  course,  as  a  be- 
ginner I  made  no  protest,  being  glad  of  every  chance 
to  become  more  used  to  the  stage.  The  part  was 
sprung  upon  me  suddenly,  and  I  had  no  dress  for  it. 
The  second  contralto  also  had  a  court  lady  to  do, 
and  the  good  creature  offered  to  lend  me  a  gorgeous 
Elizabethan  dress  of  white  satin  and  silver  (which, 
she  told  me,  she  also  intended  to  wear  as  Amneris!) 
and  she  would  "go  in  black."  I  was  touched,  but  I 
could  not  deprive  her  of  her  splendour,  so  we  ar- 
ranged something  out  of  the  pointed  pink  bodice  of 
one  of  my  other  gowns,  and  the  long  white  skirt  of  a 
summer  dress,  with  a  ladder  arrangement  of  pink 
velvet  bands  sewn  on  up  the  front. 
—103— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

I  remember  as  I  made  my  entrance,  looking  up 
suddenly  and  seeing  the  sinister  eyes  of  Carlliof  the 
stage  manager,  fixed  on  me  from  the  wings.  He  pro- 
ceeded to  mock  my  walk,  which  was  no  doubt  very 
American,  and  not  that  of  a  court  lady  at  all.  I 
never  forgot  the  mental  jolt  it  gave  me  and  the  sudden 
realization  that  every  role  should  have  a  different 
walk. 

The  range  of  parts  that  one  is  called  upon  to  per- 
form is  astonishing.  Formerly  the  limits  of  a 
Fach  (line  of  parts)  were  more  rigidly  observed 
than  at  present,  when  the  personality  of  a  singer  in 
relation  to  a  role  is  more  often  taken  into  considera- 
tion. Still,  if  a  role  definitely  belongs  to  the  Fach 
of  a  certain  singer,  he  is  supposed  to  have  first  right 
to  it.  Difficulties  arise  in  apportioning  the  parts  in 
very  modem  operas,  whose  composers  seem  no  longer 
disposed  to  write  definitely  for  a  coloratura  so- 
prano or  a  serious  bass,  but  mix  up  the  voice  range 
and  styles  of  singing  indiscriminately  in  one  part. 
My  second  real  part  was  Fricka  in  "Walkeure,"  in 
which  I  had  a  great  success  vocally,  but  unfor- 
tunately looked  a  great  deal  younger  than  the  portly 
Briinnhilde  and  far  more  like  her  daughter  than  her 
stepmother.  Then  came  the  Third  Lady  in  "Magic 
Flute,"  the  Third  Grace  in  "Tannhauser,"  Martha  in 
"Faust,"  Orlofsky  in  "Fledermaus,"  Frau  Reich  in 
—104— 


BREAKING  INTO  HARNESS 

the  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  the  Grdfin  in  "Trom- 
peter  von  Sakkingen,"  Pamela  in  "Fra  Diavolo," 
Witch  in  "Haensel  und  Gretel";  and  finally  "Car- 
men." All  these  before  Christmas  of  my  first  year. 
I  did  not  have  one  of  them  on  my  repertoire  when  I 
arrived  in  Metz,  except  Fricka  and  Carmen,  and  the 
latter  in  French. 

The  three  graces  in  "Tannhauser"  were  done  by  the 
beauties  of  the  theatre,  two  premieres  danseuses  and 
myself!  We  were  to  dress  in  white  Greek  draperies 
with  jewels,  and  of  course,  as  we  were  to  be  seductive, 
pink  roses.  I  wore  my  beautiful  Bergcrystal  neck- 
lace, made  for  me  in  Paris.  The  ladies  could  not 
contain  their  jealousy  and  said  of  course,  "aufge- 
donnert"  (thundered  out)  like  that  I  naturally  would 
stand  out  from  them.  Annoyed  at  their  pettiness  I 
removed  the  diamonds  and  flowers  and  all  ornaments. 
They  then  said  of  course  to  go  without  any  orna- 
ments was  palpably  the  best  way  of  all  to  make  my- 
self conspicuous.     So  I  let  it  go  at  that. 

I  well  remember  the  Third  Lady,  for  there  are 
spoken  passages  in  this  opera,  and  I  had  to  speak 
German  for  the  first  time  before  an  audience  of 
critically  listening  natives,  and  Mozartian  German  at 
that!  Pamela  nearly  gave  me  nervous  prostra- 
tion. They  were  determined  that  I  should  do  it 
because  she  had  to  speak  German  with  an  English 
—105— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

accent,  so  they  said  it  was  made  for  me.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  after  the  months  I  had  spent  in  carefully- 
eradicating  my  English  accent  it  was  difficult  sud- 
denly to  exaggerate  it  to  order.  I  had  to  learn,  re- 
hearse and  play  the  entire  part  in  five  days,  and  I 
thought  I  should  go  mad.  I  had  never  seen  the 
wretched  thing,  so  the  baritone  who  played  my  hus- 
band kindly  came  over  to  help  me  with  the  business. 
Otherwise  my  sister  and  I  hardly  left  the  piano  to 
eat'and  sleep.  The  dialect  part  of  the  libretto  was  in 
an  ancient  manuscript  copy,  torn,  marked  and  dog's- 
eared,  and  written  in  an  almost  illegible  German 
script.  I  could  not  take  time  enough  to  puzzle  it 
out,  so  my  sister  spent  hours  poring  over  it,  de- 
ciphering the  German  letters  literally  one  by  one 
by  aid  of  a  key,  and  writing  it  again  in  Latin  script. 
I  had  no  clothes  for  it,  as  it  was  not  on  my  repertoire 
and  it  plays  in  1820,  but  they  costumed  it  for  me  in 
modem  dress,  so  again  my  summer  wardrobe  was 
called  into  service. 

I  learned  it  so  quickly  that  the  colleagues  called 
me  "Die  Notenfresserin"  or  note-eater,  but  the  strain 
was  awful.  I  remember  when  I  was  studying  Pamela 
the  Kapellmeister  told  me  at  least  ten  times,  how  the 
contralto  who  played  the  Pamela  in  his  father's  the- 
atre and  who  was  also  an  English-speaking  woman, 
had  so  caught  his  father's  fancy  in  that  role,  that  from 
—106— 


BREAKING  INTO  HARNESS 

then  on  he  had  a  tremendous  affair  with  her.  This 
he  repeated  to  me  again  and  again,  but  I  never  seemed 
to  take  the  hint. 

As  Erda  in  "Siegfried"  I  had  a  most  trying  ex- 
perience. The  director  had  been,  as  I  have  said, 
a  well-known  Bayreuth  singer,  and  he  thought  no 
one  could  sing  Wagner  but  himself.  Unfortunately 
he  had  a  strong  tendency  to  "look  upon  the  wine," 
and  when  he  had  a  part  to  sing  nervousness  attacked 
him  to  such  an  extent  that  he  began  drinking  in  self- 
defence  to  enable  him  to  stand  the  strain.  Perhaps 
his  beverages  were  more  potent  than  usual,  but  that 
night  he  was  decidedly  irresponsible.  He  struggled 
through  the  Wanderer  s  first  scene,  and  conscious  that 
he  was  doing  it  badly,  he  sent  out  for  a  bottle  of 
champagne  as  a  bracer.  The  consequence  was  that 
in  our  scene  in  the  third  act,  he  was  utterly  incapac- 
itated. He  sang  all  kinds  of  things  not  in  the  text, 
bits  from  Hunding  in  "Walkeure,"  from  Daland  in 
"HoUaender,"  from  "Fidelio."  He  rolled  about  the 
stage  and  lurched  in  my  direction  with  his  spear 
pointed  at  me,  shouting  Pogners  advice  to  Eva  while 
I  was  singing  Erdas  responses.  It  seemed  to  go  on 
for  ages,  but  at  last  Siegfried,  waiting  for  his  cue  in 
the  wings,  realized  that  he  must  save  the  scene,  entered 
and  escorted  his  befuddled  relation  from  the  stage. 
I  had  made  up  with  a  creamy  white  grease  paint  and 
—107— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

no  red.  My  sister  said,  "Why  did  you  make  up  with 
rouge  and  not  have  the  pallor  we  agreed  upon?" 
My  cheeks  were  so  scarlet  from  mortification  that  no 
grease  paint  would  have  paled  them. 

The  audience  took  it  splendidly,  I  must  confess, 
and  refrained  from  any  expression  of  disapproval 
or  joy — thought  it  must  have  been  funny!  The  next 
day  there  were  announcements  in  all  the  papers  that 
he  had  had  a  temporary  lapse  of  memory  owing  to 
grief  over  the  sudden  death  of  his  mother,  who,  as 
the  stage  manager  cynically  informed  us,  had  reached 
out  a  hand  from  the  grave  to  save  her  son,  she  having 
been  dead  for  ten  years!  The  director  went  to  Ber- 
lin and  stayed  there  for  weeks.  We  afterwards 
learned  that  it  was  a  plot,  deliberately  planned  and 
put  through  by  Carlhof  to  gain  the  direction  of  the 
theatre.  I  can  see  him  now  stalking  around,  six  foot 
four,  chewing  his  rag  of  a  dyed  moustache,  his  face 
pale  and  his  eyes  glittering  with  anxiety  as  to  the 
success  of  his  plan  to  encourage  the  director  to  drink. 
The  director  once  told  me  the  hours  between  the  last 
meal  and  the  time  to  go  to  one's  dressing  room  to 
begin  making  up  are  the  dangerous  ones.  He  said, 
"First  one  takes  a  glass  of  wine  to  steady  one's  shak- 
ing nerves;  later  a  glass  is  not  enough  so  it  becomes 
a  bottle,  then  two  bottles  and  so  on  till  control 
is  lost."  It  is  easy  for  any  singer  to  understand, 
—108— 


BREAKING  INTO  HARNESS 


and  the  best  remedy  is  to  omit  that  first  glass. 
"Carmen"  was  the  second  opera  which  I  had  to  do 
without  rehearsal.  The  soprano  had  failed  in  it  and 
it  was  promised  to  me  to  keep  if  I  could  do  it  ohne 
probe  (without  rehearsal) .  I  sang  it  for  the  first  time, 
quaking  with  nerves,  on  Christmas  Day,  and  my  nick- 
name after  that  was  "Die  schoene  Carmen."  After 
Christmas  we  produced  the  "Merry  Widow"  which 
was  new  then,  and  I  was  cast  for  the  Dutiful  Wife. 
There  was  plenty  of  variety  in  my  work.  I  would 
sing  Carmen  on  Sunday,  Orlofsky  in  "Fledermaus" 
on  Tuesday,  speaking  German  with  a  Russian  accent, 
Pamela  on  Thursday  night  with  an  English  accent, 
and  Frau  Reich  on  Friday  night  with  no  accent  at  all! 
I  dressed  Frau  Reich  in  a  gown  of  the  time  of  Henry 
V  while  the  rest  of  the  cast  "went  Shakespearean." 
We  were  far  too  busy  for  dress  rehearsals  of  an  old 
opera,  and  I  supposed  of  course  that  it  would  be  cos- 
tumed in  the  real  period  of  the  play.  When  I  ap- 
peared on  the  stage,  they  all  demanded  "And  what, 
pray,  are  you  supposed  to  represent?"  "I  am  play- 
ing Shakespeare's  Frau  Reich"  I  answered  with  dig- 
nity— "and  I  am  the  only  person  on  the  stage  who  is 
properly  dressed."  But  you  have  to  know  your  col- 
leagues well  before  you  can  make  an  answer  like  that 
successfully,  without  their  hating  you  for  it. 

—109— 


CHAPTER  XI 

SOME   STAGE   DELIGHTS 

WE  had  also  what  is  known  as  Abstecher,  on 
off  nights.  That  is,  performances  in  a 
neighbouring  and  still  smaller  town  about 
once  a  month.  We  would  travel  altogether,  taking 
our  costumes  and  make-up  with  us,  principals  second 
class  and  chorus  third.  Our  fare  was  paid,  and  the 
generous  management  allowed  us  two  marks  apiece 
(50c)  extra  for  expenses!  As  we  left  at  five  P.  M. 
returning  at  one  or  two  in  the  morning,  this  allowance 
was  not  excessive  for  food  alone,  but  the  thrifty  took 
black  bread  and  sausage  with  them,  and  expended 
only  fifteen  pfennigs  (3^c)  for  beer.  Our  Ah- 
stecher  was  a  village  with  a  cavalry  barracks,  a  rail- 
road station,  and  not  much  else.  The  theatre  was 
built  over  a  sort  of  ware-house  and  stable  combined, 
and  we  fell  over  bales  and  packing  cases  at  the  en- 
trance. The  dressing  rooms  were  tiny  boxes,  with 
a  shelf,  one  gas  light  in  a  wire  globe,  and  a  red- 
hot  stove  in  each  room,  and  no  window.  We  dressed 
three  in  a  room.  The  stage  was  so  small  that  once,  as 
—110— 


SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS 


Nancy,  I  played  a  whole  scene  with  the  tail  of  my 
train  caught  in  the  door  by  which  I  had  entered,  and 
never  knew  it!  We  were  always  given  a  rapturous 
welcome.  Sometimes  one  of  the  principals  would 
miss  the  train  and  be  forced  to  come  on  by  a  later  one, 
and  tlien  the  sequence  of  scenes  in  the  opera  would 
be  changed  quite  regardless  of  the  plot,  for  we  would 
play  all  the  scenes,  in  which  he  did  not  appear,  first, 
and  do  his  afterwards.  After  the  opening  chorus,  the 
soprano  would  go  on  for  her  aria,  and  while  she  was 
singing  it,  we  would  decide  what  to  give  next.  "I'll 
do  my  aria!"  "Oh  no!  Not  the  two  arias  to- 
gether!" "Let's  have  the  duet  from  tlie  third  act, 
and  then  the  soprano  and  tenor  can  just  come  in  cas- 
ually and  we'll  do  the  big  quartet,  and  then  you  can 
do  your  aria!"  We  would  see  the  audience  hunting 
in  a  confused  sort  of  way  through  their  libretto,  with 
expressions  rather  like  Bill  the  Lizard.  This  hap- 
pened once  in  the  "Merry  Wives,"  which  is  confusing 
at  best. 

After  the  performance  there  was  no  place  in  which 
to  wait  but  tlie  cafe  of  the  station.  I  was  looked  upon 
as  recklessly  extravagant  because  I  would  order  a 
Wiener  Schnitzel  mit  Salat  for  sixty  pfennigs  (15c) 
and  when  I  took  two  cents'  worth  of  butter  too,  they 
would  raise  their  eyebrows  and  murmur,  ''Diese 
Amerikaner!"  Sometimes  the  Director  came  with 
—111— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

us,  and  then  the  principals  would  be  invited  to  his 
table  and  treated  to  (German)  champagne.  But  we 
were  always  glad  when  he  stayed  at  home,  because  we 
were  much  freer  over  our  beer.  There  are  always 
one  or  two  members  of  the  company  who  are  extremely 
amusing,  and  their  antics,  imitations  and  reminis- 
cences make  the  time  fly.  There  was  one  little  chap, 
the  son  of  a  Rabbi,  who  lived  on  nothing  a  day  and 
found  himself,  and  was  an  extraordinary  mimic. 
His  imitations  of  a  director  engaging  singers,  the 
shy  one,  tlie  bold  one,  the  beginner;  and  his  marvel- 
lous take-off  of  the  members  of  the  company  kept 
us  in  roars  of  laughter.  He  could  imitate  anything 
— a  horse,  a  worn-out  piano — and  is  now  one  of  the 
most  successful  "entertainers"  in  Berlin.  The  ones 
in  whose  compartment  he  travelled  on  the  train  thought 
themselves  lucky  and  often  arrived  so  hoarse  from 
laughing  that  they  could  hardly  sing. 

All  this  experience  is  invaluable  for  the  beginner, 
his  self -consciousness  melts  like  snow  in  July,  and  it 
gives  him,  as  nothing  else  can,  that  poise  and  author- 
ity on  the  stage  which  are  almost  as  important  as  the 
voice  itself.  But  the  work,  especially  for  a  foreigner, 
is  killing.  It  is  not  so  much  the  performances  them- 
selves, great  as  the  strain  of  these  actually  is,  but  the 
constant,  never-ceasing  learning  by  heart,  and  the 
drag  of  continuous  rehearsing.  The  "room  rehears- 
—112— 


SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS 


als"  of  the  music  alone,  take  place,  in  a  theatre  of 
this  kind,  in  one  of  the  dressing  rooms  where  there  is 
a  piano.  The  room  is  almost  always  small  and 
very  close,  and  there  are  eight  or  ten  people  packed 
into  it,  all  singing  hard  and  exhausting  the  little  air 
there  is.  The  stage  rehearsals  with  the  almost  in- 
variable and  inevitable  shouting  and  excitement  are 
very  trying  to  the  nerves,  especially  when  one  is  mak- 
ing two  or  three  debuts  a  week,  that  is,  singing  a  new 
part  for  the  first  time  almost  every  other  night  as 
I  did,  at  the  beginning  of  my  career.  The  better 
the  theatre,  of  course,  the  greater  the  smoothness  and 
lack  of  confusion  at  stage  rehearsals.  The  singers 
and  orchestra  men  are  more  experienced,  and  more 
competent,  and  the  manners  of  the  Kapellmeister  im- 
prove in  ratio  to  the  importance  of  the  opera  house. 
A  little  extra  excitement  is  permissible  when  a  new 
production  is  being  put  on,  but  at  the  rehearsals  of 
repetitions  undue  exhibitions  of  "temperament"  on 
either  side  are  discouraged,  and  the  powers  that  be 
have  to  mind  their  manners  and  stick  to  the  conven- 
tional forms  of  address.  The  Heldentenor  may 
sometimes  have  to  allow  his  artistic  nature  to  get  the 
better  of  him  for  a  moment,  but  no  one  else  may 
claim  such  license. 

The  stage  during  rehearsals  is  like  a  workshop 
— ^a  certain  amount  of  noise  and  confusion  is  neces- 
—113— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  'AN  OPERA  SINGER 

sitated  by  the  labour  going  on  in  it,  but  no  one  has 
time  to  spare  from  his  share  of  the  job  in  hand,  and 
the  discipline  in  a  good  theatre  is  remarkable.  The 
native  German  is  trained,  of  course,  both  to  give  and 
take  orders  well,  the  result  of  the  whole  system  of 
government,  both  of  the  family  and  of  the  nation. 
Stage  etiquette  and  the  relationship  between  prin- 
cipals and  chorus,  erste  und  zweite  Krdfte  (princi- 
pals of  first  and  second  rank)  singers  and  the  man- 
agement, grows  more  conventional  and  regulated  ac- 
cording to  the  class  of  the  theatre.  Those  in  author- 
ity may  exact  perfect  obedience,  but  they  must  ask 
for  it  properly;  and  while  an  individual  is  entitled 
to  proper  consideration,  he  must  never  forget  that 
he  is  but  a  unit  of  the  whole. 

The  dressing-room  arrangements  in  Metz  were 
rather  primitive.  The  theatre  was  100  years  old, 
for  one  thing,  and  no  one  had  ever  had  the  money 
to  install  new  conveniences.  In  a  good  German  thea- 
tre, the  dressing  rooms  are  rarely  used  for  rehearsing, 
and  the  principals  dress  alone,  at  least  when  they 
have  a  big  role  to  sing.  In  Metz  I  shared  my  room 
with  several  other  women  and  had  only  a  comer  of 
it  which  I  could  call  my  own.  Long  shelves  with 
lockers  under  them  ran  down  two  sides  of  the  room, 
with  lights  over  them  at  intervals,  and  under  every 
light  a  singer  "made  up."  There  was  a  long  glass 
—114— 


SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS 


at  one  end  of  the  room,  but  we  had  to  provide  in- 
dividual mirrors  for  ourselves.  There  was  no  run- 
ning water,  only  a  couple  of  jugs  and  basins  stood 
in  one  comer  of  the  shelf.  Good  routined  dressers 
were  provided  by  the  theatre.  Mine  was  an  Alsatian 
who  loved  to  speak  French  with  me,  but  whom  I  dis- 
couraged as  I  wanted  all  the  practise  I  could  get  in 
German.  She  used  to  call  me  "Fraulein  Miss" — 
pronouncing  the  latter  like  the  Gennan  word  miess 
which  means  mediocre,  but  she  meant  to  be  particu- 
larly respectful.  I  have  always  found  that  it  pays 
a  hundred  fold  to  make  friends  of  the  dressers,  stage- 
doorkeeper,  property-man,  carpenter,  head  scene- 
shifter,  fireman  and  all  the  other  workers  whose  co- 
operation is  necessary  for  a  good  ensemble.  It  is 
usually  quite  easy  to  be  on  good  terms  with  them,  and 
they  have  unlimited  opportunities  for  making  things 
go  smoothly  for  you,  or  the  reverse. 

Women's  costumes  are  not  kept  in  the  theatre;  as 
they  are  the  personal  property  of  the  singer  they 
must  be  kept  at  home,  and  be  sent  over  to  the  theatre 
on  the  morning  of  a  performance.  A  Korbtrdger 
(basket  carrier)  is  usually  provided  to  whom  you 
give  from  75  cents  to  $1.00  a  month,  and  who  per- 
forms this  service  for  you — but  many  singers  send 
their  maids.  With  the  usual  discrimination  against 
our  sex,  men's  costumes  are  provided  in  opera  houses 
—115— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

of  all  grades.  In  the  largest  theatres  the  women's 
are  furnished  also,  and  you  even  have  to  have  special 
pemiission  to  wear  your  own. 

The  scenery  and  costumes  in  Metz  were  often  sur- 
prisingly good  when  one  considered  that  so  few  "sets" 
must  do  such  varied  tilings.  Our  property  man  was 
an  inventive  genius  at  making  something  out  of  noth- 
ing. He  prided  himself  upon  certain  realistic  de- 
tails. If  the  piece  called  for  coffee,  the  real  article, 
though  of  some  dreadful  variety  unknown  to  con- 
temporary culinary  science,  was  provided,  and  really 
poured  into  tlie  cups.  If  a  meal  were  to  be  served 
on  the  stage,  some  sort  of  real  food  was  there  for  the 
actors  to  eat,  even  if  it  were  only  slices  of  bread  served 
elaborately  as  the  most  recherche  French  supper, 
though  usually  it  was  ladyfingers.  Eating  scenes  are 
usually  confined  to  the  drama,  though  there  are  some 
operas  in  which  a  meal  "comes  before"  as  the  Ger- 
mans say.  In  the  "Merry  Wives  of  Windsor"  for 
example,  the  scene  containing  Anna's  letter  aria  opens 
with  the  company  at  supper  in  Frau  Reich's  home. 
The  wives  are  explaining  their  tricks  and  plotting 
Falstafs  final  discomfiture  in  spoken  dialogue. 
One  night  when  I  was  singing  Frau  Reich  in  Metz 
there  was  a  particularly  attractive  dish  of  real  apples 
on  the  stage  supper  table.  The  Herr  Reich  was  the 
serious  bass,  a  thrifty  individual  who  couldn't  bear 
—116— 


SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS 


to  let  a  penny's  worth  of  anything  escape  him.  As 
his  guests  rose  to  go  he  picked  up  the  dish  of  apples 
and  pressed  it  upon  them. 

"Here,"  he  improvised,  "take  these  home  to  the 
children.  Oh!  You  have  no  children — well,  take 
them  anyway — the  children  will  come  later." 

His  hospitable  wishes  were  received  with  bewilder- 
ment by  the  audience,  but  as  he  made  his  exit  with 
his  guests  and  immediately  began  to  eat  the  apples, 
he  bore  his  scolding  from  the  regisseur  very  philo- 
sophically. On  some  stages  where  the  provisions  are 
more  elaborate,  the  actors  in  certain  plays  make  a 
regular  practise  of  eating  their  suppers  on  the  stage. 
In  "Divorgons"  for  example  or  in  the  "Anatol  Cy- 
clus"  of  Schnitzler. 

Our  property  man  in  Metz,  with  the  historic 
Shakespearean  name  of  Mondenschein,  (Moonshine) 
was  an  ardent  lover  of  drapery.  An  artistocratic 
interior,  to  his  mind,  must  be  entirely  filled  with  as 
many  different  materials  as  possible,  all  hanging  in 
folds.  He  had  three  pairs  of  near-silk  portieres, 
bright  pink,  dull  green,  and  pale  yellow,  and  the 
combinations  that  he  made  with  those  six  curtains 
were  endless.  Garlands  of  roses,  too,  were  a  great 
resource  of  his — draped  round  a  couch  with  a  fur  rug 
upon  it,  and  a  red  light  over  all,  they  transformed 
the  scene  into  the  bower  of  a  Messalina.  In  a  white 
—117— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

light  festooned  upon  a  mantel-piece,  or  above  a  door- 
way, they  could  be  depended  upon  to  supply  the  ap- 
propriate setting  of  the  Erste  Naive' s  most  appealing 
scene.  The  young  lovehaveress  and  first  salon  lady, 
had  to  receive  them,  wired  together  into  a  bunch,  with 
the  same  delightful  surprise,  and  put  them  into  the 
same  Japanese  jar  without  any  water  in  it,  in  play 
after  play.  But  the  property  man  always  squandered 
a  perfectly  new,  uncreased  piece  of  paper  for  every 
performance  with  which  to  make  a  cornucopia  for 
them,  in  the  approved  German  style.  He  was  quite 
a  specialist  in  such  matters  as  the  colour  of  tele- 
grams in  different  countries,  and  in  the  manner  of 
folding  newspapers,  points  which  are  sometimes  neg- 
lected in  many  better  theatres.  Of  course  his  talents 
in  this  direction  had  a  better  chance  in  the  dramatic 
than  in  the  operatic  productions. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  to  note  in  this  connection,  how 
archaic  the  arrangement  of  such  details  remains  in 
operatic  performances  even  on  the  best  stages.  How 
in  "Carmen"  for  example,  the  singers  must  pretend 
to  drink  to  Escamillo  out  of  perfectly  dry  tin  cups, 
instead  of  using  real  wine  and  glasses,  as  a  quite 
second-rate  dramatic  company  would  do.  How  But- 
terfly and  Suzuki  are  never  given  real  tea  to  serve  to 
the  Consul  or  Yamadori.  Or  how  the  girls  in  "Thais" 
—118— 


SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS 


bring  up  their  water-jars  out  of  the  well  with  the 
outsides  quite  dry. 

Of  course  in  theatres  of  the  Metz  class  matters 
of  costuming  are  simplified,  and  historical  accuracy 
is  not  one  of  the  aims.  For  example,  everything  be- 
fore Christ  is  done  in  fur  rugs  and  winged  helmets 
for  the  men,  and  flannel  nightgowns  and  long  hair 
for  the  women.  Any  period  up  to  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury is  costumed  in  mantles  and  gowns  of  furniture 
brocade,  after  that  it  is  Alt-deutsch  (old  German),  or 
Spanisch  (Shakespearean — mostly  black  velvet  and 
jet  or  white  satin  and  silver),  until  it  turns  safely 
into  Rococo,  which  means  white  wigs.  After  that  it 
is  all  Modern,  and  even  the  chorus  has  to  supply  its 
own  modern  clothes.  The  men  principals  have  their 
historical  costumes,  with  the  exception  of  wigs,  tights, 
and  shoes,  supplied  to  them,  but  the  women  must 
have  their  own.  The  collection  of  men's  clothes  in 
an  old  theatre  is  sometimes  quite  remarkable,  some  of 
the  suits  of  a  hundred  years  ago  being  actually  of 
the  period. 

They  retain  the  smells  of  the  period  also,  many  of 
them;  for  in  a  theatre  like  that  of  Metz  I  don't  be- 
lieve the  men's  clothes  were  ever  cleaned.  Things 
which  have  been  worn  several  times  a  week  for  seven 
months  a  year  during  the  past  hundred  years,  ac- 
—119— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

cumulate  a  richness  and  variety  of  odours  which 
must  be  sniffed  to  be  appreciated — a  very  ancient 
and  fish-like  smell  indeed.  I  often  wished  at  Metz 
that  I  had  no  use  of  my  nose,  and  I  have  wished  it 
many  times  since.  As  Amneris,  to  force  your  way 
for  the  entrance  in  the  triumph  scene,  through  an 
Egyptian  populace  composed  of  German  Infantrymen, 
is  a  squeamish  business  at  best;  but  when  they  are 
attired  in  clothes  that  haven't  been  washed  for  years, 
it  is  a  feat  before  which  any  one  may  quail,  espe- 
cially if  he  belongs  to  the  number  of  unfortunates,  un- 
luckily far  from  rare  among  singers,  whose  stomach 
nerves  are  affected  in  any  case  when  they  have  a  big 
part  before  them. 

Washing  was  not  any  too  popular  in  Metz  even 
among  the  principals.  I  have  dressed  with  leading 
women  whose  arms  showed  streaks  of  white  where 
the  water  had  run  down  as  they  washed  their  hands, 
stopping  conscientiously  at  the  wrists.  Their  make-up 
would  be  removed  with  the  same  dirty  rag  night 
after  night  during  the  whole  season;  and  their  per- 
sonal garments  under  more  or  less  smart  outer  rai- 
ment, had  often  done  overlong  service.  I  must  hasten 
to  say,  however,  that  tliis  state  of  affairs  was  the  ex- 
ception rather  than  the  rule,  and  that  in  better  thea- 
tres, the  women  principals  were  always  scrupulously 
cleanly. 

—120— 


SOME  STAGE  DELIGHTS 


Over  ornamentation  or  fineness  in  undergarments 
is  usually  looked  upon  as  rather  questionable,  among 
the  solid  middle  classes  in  Germany.  My  mother 
had  made  me  a  dainty  supply  of  be-ribboned  linen, 
and  I  was  told  after  I  had  been  in  Metz  for  some 
time,  that  at  first,  the  Alsatian  woman  who  dressed 
me  reported  me  to  be  "'beaucoup  trop  soignee  de 
ne  pas  avoir  un  amant."  However,  she  changed  her 
mind  later  on,  and  put  it  down  to  American  extrava- 
gance— always  a  safe  play.  Some  of  the  men  were 
much  more  careless  than  the  women.  Our  operetta 
tenor  played  the  whole  season  in  the  same  shirt, 
powdering  the  bosom  freshly  each  evening  with  a 
yellowish  powder  which  he  used  for  his  face. 

At  Carnival  time,  some  of  the  Schauspieler  re- 
mained for  three  days  in  the  clothes  in  which  they  had 
played  on  Saturday  night,  never  going  to  bed,  or 
even  removing  their  make-up  till  the  fun  came  to  an 
end  early  Wednesday  morning. 

Many  of  the  older  members  dyed  their  hair,  as  it 
had  begun  to  turn  grey.  Of  course  they  did  not 
have  it  done  by  competent  people,  or  nearly  often 
enough,  and  the  shades  of  rusty  brown,  green,  or 
purj3le  it  assumed  were  quite  startling.  Our  first 
Kapellmeister  used  to  dye  his  hair  a  rich  black.  He 
was  a  good-looking  man  and  very  vain.  He  was  also 
portly  and  easily  became  over-heated.  Of  course 
—121— 


-  CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

when  this  happened,  the  perspiration  running  down 
his  neck  was  dyed  black  too,  and  he  would  be  in- 
tensely worried  for  fear  we  should  see  it.  We  knew 
his  sensitiveness,  and  took  delight  in  sitting  directly 
behind  him  at  the  piano,  though  he  would  urge,  beg, 
and  finally  command  us  to  sit  beside  him.  He  was 
kindhearted  in  his  way,  and  I  remember  one  in- 
stance of  this.  The  stage  manager,  in  a  vile  humour, 
had  come  storming  into  the  midst  of  a  room  re- 
hearsal one  day,  with  some  trivial  complaint  against 
me,  and  had  succeeded  in  making  me  cry,  not  a 
difficult  matter  at  that  time  as  I  was  always  in  a 
state  of  nerve  strain  owing  to  continuous  over-fatigue. 
The  Kapellmeister  did  his  best  to  comfort  me,  telling 
me  not  to  mind,  praising  my  work,  and  finally  press- 
ing upon  me  his  huge,  brand  new  silk  handkerchief 
— a  real  sacrifice,  as  he  had  probably  intended  to 
use  it  for  days!  His  fingertips  used  to  split  in  the 
cold  weather  from  much  piano  pounding  and  I  won 
his  heart  by  prescribing  collodion  for  them.  He  con- 
tinually praised  my  sight  reading  and  quickness  in 
learning  and  it  was  he  who  gave  me  the  nick-name  of 
"Notenfresserin." 


—122- 


CHAPTER  XII 

MISPLACED    MOISTURE   AND   THE   STORY  OF   A 
COURT-LADY 

THE  Bohemian,  Hungarian  and  Croatian  singers 
nearly  always  add  to  one's  joy  in  work  by 
eating  garlic.  The  "high  dramatic"  soprano 
in  my  next  engagement  was  from  Croatia.  The  first 
time  I  went  to  Prague  to  sing,  on  alighting  from  the 
train  I  sniffed  a  strangely  familiar  odour.  The  im- 
pression of  familiarity  grew  stronger  and  stronger  as 
I  drove  to  the  hotel — but  I  couldn't  place  it.  At  last 
it  came  to  me — the  whole  town  smelled  like  our 
soprano!  I  have  often  wished,  while  on  the  stage, 
for  temporary  atrophy  of  the  senses.  In  addition  to 
the  fustiness  of  much  worn  clothes  and  infrequent 
bathing,  you  really  have  all  kinds  of  horrors  to 
endure. 

Some  terrible  creatures  with  a  passion  for  distinct 
enunciation  and  with  unfortunate  dental  formation, 
spray  you  copiously  when  uttering  words  like  Mut- 
ter or  Freude.     This   always   seems  to  happen   in 
—123— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

some  impassioned  scene  when  you  simply  can't  get 
away  from  them,  and  have  absolutely  no  defence. 
Others  have  painfully  hot  and  wet,  or  painfully  cold 
and  wet  hands  with  which  they  persistently  paw  you. 
I  remember  one  lyric  tenor  who  was  my  bugbear 
because  he  had  hands  like  a  fresh,  cold  fish.  The 
soprano  and  I  had  a  scene  with  him  in  one  opera,  in 
which  she  had  to  say,  ''Die  Hand,  so  weich,  so  warm' 
(the  hand,  so  soft,  so  warm),  speaking  of  his  clammy 
member.  I  dared  her  one  night,  to  say  instead,  "Die 
Hand,  so  feucht,  so  kalt"  (The  hand,  so  moist,  so 
cold),  and  when  it  came  to  the  point,  sure  enough  she 
did  so,  her  voice  so  shaky  with  suppressed  laughter, 
that  it  came  out  in  a  tremulous  pianissimo.  We  both 
had  to  turn  away  from  the  front  in  silent  convulsions, 
but  not  a  soul  in  the  house  was  the  wiser. 

This  is  a  horrible  subject  and  I  might  enlarge  upon 
it  endlessly,  recalling  for  example,  the  pleasures  of 
being  folded  in  the  embrace  of  a  large,  warm,  damp 
tenor  smelling  at  best  of  onions;  or  still  worse  the 
large  drops  which  rain  upon  you  during  the  most 
touching  love  scene  from  his  manly  brow,  while  you, 
though  shuddering  with  disgust,  daren't  try  to  dodge 
them,  or  even  change  the  wistfully  adoring  expres- 
sion of  your  countenance.  It  may  be  honest  sweat, 
but  it  is  a  demned  moist  unpleasant  kind  of  honesty 
in  my  opinion.  Goritz  told  me  that  he  once,  as  Kur- 
—124— 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

wenal,  in  the  last  act  of  "Tristan,"  dripped  on  a 
prostrate  Tristans  eye  so  long  that  the  poor  tenor 
was  blind  for  day?  after.  This  is  German  efficiency! 
Some  of  the  colleagues  at  Metz  were  a  great  con- 
trast to  others  in  their  scrupulous  care  of  their  per- 
sonal appearance.  The  lyric  baritone,  a  youngster 
from  die  Rhineland  making  his  debut  in  opera,  at- 
tracted me  at  the  very  first  rehearsal  by  his  groomed 
look  and  beautifully  manicured  finger-nails.  He 
came  from  quite  ordinary  people,  and  had  been 
brought  up  to  be  a  "Tapizierer,"  curtain  hanger,  up- 
holsterer, etc.  He  had  never  met  any  Americans 
before  and  we  grew  to  like  him  very  much,  and  used 
to  let  him  go  for  walks  with  us,  and  come  to  us  for 
tea.  He  was  always  wanting  to  tapizieren  for  us 
and  criticizing  the  hang  of  the  curtains,  etc.,  in  our 
rooms.  We  taught  him  to  play  Canfield,  more  to 
keep  him  from  talking  than  for  any  other  reason,  for 
my  sister  and  I  used  to  play  patience  for  hours,  so 
that  we  should  not  be  tempted  to  talk  when  I  was 
resting  my  voice  in  the  brief  intervals  between  re- 
hearsals and  performances.  We  used  to  play  with 
pretty  little  German  patience  cards  in  a  pocket  size, 
and  he  was  simply  infatuated  with  the  game.  He 
showed  all  his  friends  how  to  play,  and  dozens  of 
packs  of  these  cards  were  imported  from  Frankfort 
where  they  are  made. 

—125— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

The  craze  spread  rapidly;  all  the  officers  began  to 
play  in  their  Casinos,  and  the  principals  in  the  thea- 
tre were  always  being  roared  at  for  keeping  the  stage 
waiting  during  rehearsals,  when  they  missed  their 
cues  by  being  absorbed  in  the  game  of  Canfield.  It 
became  the  great  resource  of  those  who  had  small 
parts  in  the  first  act  of  an  opera,  and  then  had  to 
wait  in  costume  and  make-up  until  the  very  end  like 
the  Meister  in  "Meistersinger,"  or  Mary  in  "Flie- 
gender  Hollander"  who  has  a  seemingly  interminable 
wait  after  her  one  scene  at  the  beginning  of  the  sec- 
ond act,  until  at  the  very  last  of  the  third  she  has  to 
rush  in  for  the  single  phrase  "'Senta,  Senta,  wass  willst 
du tun?" 

In  return  for  our  tea,  the  little  baritone  would  tell 
us  amusing  tales  of  his  experiences  in  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment while  doing  his  military  service.  His  high 
spirits  and  his  beautiful  voice  made  him  popular  with 
officers  and  men,  but  he  was  quite  unamenable  to 
discipline,  and  had  spent  something  like  ninety  days 
in  prison  during  his  first  year,  for  such  offences  as 
refusing  to  stop  singing  on  the  march,  or  for  cheek- 
ing an  officer.  He  used  to  call  us  his  goddesses,  and 
speak  to  us  as  "Frauleinchen."  Our  rooms,  through 
him,  were  the  starting  place  of  new  culinary  ideas  in 
Metz.  We  taught  him  to  make  and  like  such  Amer- 
ican delicacies  as  salted  almonds,  chocolate  fudge,  and 
—126— 


AMNERIS   AS   I   USED   TO   DRKSS    IT 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

hot  chocolate  sauce  for  ice  cream,  an  unheard  of 
combination.  We  tried  to  make  him  like  fruit  salad 
with  mayonnaise;  but  the  mixture  of  sweet  with  oil 
and  vinegar  was  too  much  for  his  burgher  palate, 
and  he  used  to  quote  to  us  the  Bavarian  proverb, 
'Was  der  Bauer  net  kennt  frisst  er  net"  (What  the 
peasant  doesn't  know  he  doesn't  eat.) 

The  country  round  Metz  is  rarely  beautiful,  in  its 
half-French,  half-German  character.  It  retains  its 
typical  French  poplars,  planted  in  long  lines,  which 
turn  pure  gold  in  autumn.  A  placid  river,  the  Mo- 
selle, runs  between  hills  covered  with  orchards  and 
vineyards,  with  picturesque  villages  of  grey  stone  and 
red  tiling,  piled  steeply  up  their  sides.  The  meadows 
in  the  fall  are  filled  with  lavender  crocuses — the  kind 
that  Meredith's  Diana  got  up  at  four  A.  M.  to  gather. 
Every  village  has  of  course  its  "Gasthaus,"  some  still 
absolutely  French  in  the  arrangement  of  their  marble 
topped  tables,  mirrors,  and  red  upholstered  benches 
running  round  three  sides  of  the  room.  We  have 
drunk  coffee  in  autumn,  and  Maibowle  in  spring  in 
every  one  of  them,  I  think.  I  dare  say  many  of 
them  are  still  using  the  same  card  board  circles  un- 
der their  customers'  beer-glasses  which  we  marked 
with  our  initials.  Can  you  flip  them  from  the  edge 
of  the  table  into  your  own  hand? 

The  town  of  Metz  itself  is  interesting  enough,  and 
—127— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

we  explored  it  thoroughly.  It  is  very  ancient  ground 
indeed,  and  there  are  Roman  walls  still  to  be  seen, 
with  characteristically  beautiful  brick- work;  old 
chapels,  a  Gothic  cathedral,  and  die  remains  of  the 
mediaeval  wall  and  moat  which  once  surrounded  the 
town,  with  great  arched  fortified  gates  at  its  east  and 
west  entrances. 

On  returning  once  from  a  long  walk  with  the  little 
baritone  we  entered  by  the  eastern  gate,  and  as  he 
was  doing  a  small  part  that  evening,  and  it  was  getting 
unpleasantly  near  the  hour  of  the  performance,  we 
took  a  short  cut  through  an  unfamiliar  part  of  the 
town.  We  soon  found  ourselves  in  a  narrow  street 
of  respectable  enough  looking  houses,  but  as  we 
passed,  out  of  nearly  every  window  on  both  sides,  a 
female  head  was  thrust,  all  in  varying  degrees  of 
frowsiness,  and  remarks  and  comments  in  half  un- 
intelligible dialect  were  yelled  at  us  with  shrieks  of 
hideous  laughter.  Our  little  escort  grew  purple  with 
confusion,  walking  faster  and  faster,  and  when  we 
reached  an  open  square  he  broke  into  the  most  fervent 
apologies  for  unwittingly  leading  us  into  such  a  street. 
It  was  a  curious  and  unpleasant  little  experience  and 
reminded  me  of  certain  quarters  in  oriental  cities  of 
which  I  had  heard  tales.  We  named  it  "the  street  of 
VRCiSTiTjT  queer  women,"  and  avoided  the  eastern  gateway  in 
our  walks  thereafter. 

—128— 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

Later  in  the  season  another  colleague  sometimes 
joined  our  tea  parties  and  walking  expeditions.  This 
was  an  immensely  talented  youth,  attached  to  the 
theatre  in  an  anomalous  position  of  third  Kapellmeis- 
ter, in  reality  a  volunteer  without  pay,  hoping  to  pick 
up  an  occasional  chance  to  gain  experience  in  con- 
ducting an  orchestra.  He  was  a  Frenchman  of  excel- 
lent family  who  had  studied  in  one  of  the  great  con- 
servatories and  thought  he  spoke  the  German  lan- 
guage. Such  German  I  have  never  heard  before 
or  since.  His  French  inability  to  aspirate  an  "h," 
a  pronounced  stutter,  and  the  most  nonchalant  dis- 
regard of  gender,  formed  a  combination  which  was 
enough  to  upset  the  gravity  of  a  German  customs 
house  official  himself!  It  was  his  business  among 
other  things,  to  "einstudieren"  the  new  members  of 
the  chorus  in  any  opera  which  they  did  not  know,  but 
of  course  his  version  of  their  language  rendered  any 
authority  he  might  have  had  over  them  quite  ineffec- 
tual, and  his  position  was  anything  but  enviable.  At 
the  same  time  he  was  a  really  magnificent  pianist,  a 
composer  of  promise,  and  a  thorough  musician;  but 
if  ever  a  creature  was  out  of  his  element  he  was 
that  creature  as  Kapellmeister  in  Metz.  And  yet 
what  is  a  young  fellow  in  his  position  to  do?  The  de- 
sire to  conduct,  the  longing  to  interpret  the  great  mas- 
ters through  the  medium  of  an  orchestra,  possessed 
—129— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

him  to  the  point  of  obsession;  but  where  to  find  an 
orchestra  to  conduct  was  a  problem.  The  barrier 
"no  experience"  was  erected  across  his  path  as  it  had 
been  across  mine,  though  he  must  serve  an  appren- 
ticeship somewhere. 

The  musical  life  of  Germany  attracted  him  for  the 
same  reasons  as  it  had  attracted  me,  and  so  he  en- 
dured a  veritable  martyrdom  in  the  pursuance  of  his 
dream.  He  was  a  pupil  of  Nikisch  and  told  us  Nik- 
isch  had  told  him  he  made  half  his  career  with 
his  cuffs.  Whoever  has  watched  him  shoot  them 
gently  out  as  he  begins  to  conduct  will  know  what  he 
meant. 

Our  rooms  were  a  sort  of  haven  for  this  boy,  I 
think,  where  he  could  talk  of  the  things  that  absorbed 
him  in  a  language  that  was  his  servant  instead  of  his 
master.  In  return  he  would  play  so  gorgeously  for 
us,  that  our  little  upright  piano  rocked  under  the 
strain.  He  could  suggest  a  whole  orchestra  in  his 
playing.  Strauss'  "Salome"  was  brand  new  then  and 
he  revelled  in  it,  and  adopted  the  motif  of  Jochanaan 
as  a  signal  which  he  and  the  baritone  would  whistle 
under  our  windows.  Sometimes  he  would  get  lost 
at  the  piano  and  play  for  hours,  till  our  supper  time 
was  past,  and  our  good  friend  Emma  Seebold,  the 
"Hoch  Dramatische/'  would  rush  in  and  urge  us  to 
hurry  and  get  ready  for  some  mythical  dinner  to 
—130— 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

which  we  were  invited.  This  was  always  successful, 
owing  to  Seebold's  talent. 

We  grew  very  fond  of  her  and  often  spent  our 
evenings  together.  She  had  a  lovely  voice  and  would 
put  her  head  back  on  her  chair  sometimes  in  the  eve- 
ning and  sing  us  languorous  Austrian  peasant  songs 
with  her  fascinating  Viennese  accent.  Her  passion 
was  remnants,  and  she  would  send  home  boxes  of 
scraps  of  passementerie  and  odds  and  ends  of  silk 
trimmings  which  she  would  sew  all  over  her  cos- 
tumes. The  richness  she  saw  in  it  was  pathetic. 
Bargain  gloves  were  also  irresistible,  and  she  had 
green  ones  and  purple  ones,  spotted  and  mildewed 
ones,  and  loved  them  all  because  they  were  cheap. 

The  pianist  and  the  baritone  often  met  at  our 
rooms  and  got  on  surprisingly  well  considering  their 
utter  lack  of  points  of  contact  and  the  natural  con- 
tempt that  they  felt  for  each  other.  The  French- 
man was  certainly  mildly  crazy.  He  believed  that 
his  astral  body,  or  psychic  envelope,  or  something 
was  visible  as  an  aura  of  light  around  his  hand,  and 
he  would  hold  it  up  and  look  at  it  and  say,  "Ah, 
oui,  elle  est  la — je  vais  bien  aujourd'hui,"  or  shake 
his  head  and  say,  "Non,  pas  la  aujourd'hui — je  ne 
suis  rienr  He  was  good  looking,  bearing  a  strong 
resemblance  to  the  portraits  of  Oscar  Wilde.  He 
dressed  well,  and  his  washing  bills — amounting  as 
—131— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

we  were  told,  with  bated  breath,  to  ten  and  fifteen 
marks  a  week — were  the  scandal  of  the  theatre! 
Since  those  days  he  has  gone  back  to  his  piano,  though 
he  persevered  in  the  theatre  long  enough  to  obtain  a 
second  Kapellmeister  position  in  a  good  opera  house. 
I  have  met  him  casually  all  over  Europe,  and  he  is 
one  of  the  very  few  of  the  old  Kollegen  from  Metz 
whom  I  have  ever  seen  again. 

These  three  were  the  only  ones  that  season  whom 
we  cared  about,  though  we  were  friendly  enough  with 
all  of  them  after  Christmas,  and  as  I  have  said,  we 
dined  at  the  hotel  with  a  group  of  them  every  day. 
They  were  all  types  in  their  way.  First  the  director 
— a  survival  of  the  old  school,  with  rather  long  dyed 
hair  and  enormous  dyed  moustache,  always  in  Geh- 
rock  (frock  coat)  with  a  large  tie  in  which  reposed 
a  royal  monogram  in  pearls  and  diamonds  presented 
to  him  by  the  Hereditary  Grand  Duke  of  Glumphen- 
bergen-Schlimmerheim  or  something,  during  his 
career  as  Heldenbariton.  In  the  street  he  wore  a 
soft  black  felt  hat  which  would  have  done  for  the 
Wanderer  in  "Siegfried,"  and  of  course  a  furlined 
coat  whenever  the  weather  gave  the  least  excuse  for 
one.  Champagne  was  his  universal  panacea — ^his 
very  present  help  in  trouble.  If  he  had  a  disagree- 
ment with  a  singer  for  any  cause  and  wished  to  make 
it  right  again,  he  would  always  send  a  bottle  of  Sekt 
—132— 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

if  it  were  a  woman,  or  present  the  money  to  buy  one  if 
it  were  a  man.  He  had  been  a  famous  singer  in  his 
day,  and  known  others  far  more  so,  and  his  reminis- 
cences could  be  interesting  enough.  His  stories  of 
Bayreuth  under  the  old  regime,  were  really  interest- 
ing, with  the  prescribed  position  of  every  finger,  ev- 
ery gesture  studied  to  an  inch,  every  tone  closed, 
opened,  coloured  according  to  strictest  rule,  every 
syllable  enunciated  with  minutest  care,  and  the  effect 
of  all  this  schooling  on  the  singer — the  strained  and 
broken  nerves,  the  wrecked  voices  that  were  the  re- 
sult of  it.  Diction — Aussprache — was  naturally 
enough  his  hobby,  but  his  ideas  were  absurdly  ex- 
aggerated and  caused  much  more  or  less  hidden 
amusement  among  the  Personal.  He  insisted,  for 
example,  upon  so  much  "t"  in  a  phrase  like  Mignon's 
"Dahin,  dahin,  moecht  ich  mit  dirj^  that  it  sounded 
like  "Moecht  tick  mit  tier."  Anything  of  that  sort 
among  colleagues  is  looked  upon  as  a  tremendous 
joke,  especially  when  it  is  on  the  director. 

One  result  of  his  former  glory  was  that  famous 
people  came  to  this  theatre  to  gastieren  and  it  also 
seemed  to  us  as  if  every  former  singer  or  actor  in 
Germany  of  any  pretension  to  fame,  who  had  a  son 
or  daughter  to  launch  in  either  profession,  sent  them 
to  our  director  for  a  debut.  This  was  looked  upon 
by  us  as  a  bore;  but  the  famous  guests  were  rather 
—133— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

amusing,  because  when  they  had  gone,  the  director 
used  to  relate  all  kinds  of  derogatory  stories  about 
them.  Possart Ritter,  Ernst  von was  per- 
haps the  most  renowned.  He  came  to  recite  Manfred 
at  a  special  performance  with  our  soloists  and  chorus. 
The  director  told  us  how,  during  the  most  impas- 
sioned speeches  of  Goethe  or  Shakespeare  his  eye 
would  be  on  the  upper  gallery,  counting  empty  places, 
and  how  after  the  performance  when  the  box  office 
sheet  showed  an  ausverkauftes  Haus'he  would  de- 
mand, "What  about  those  three  empty  seats  in  the 
second  row  of  the  top  gallery,  at  the  left?" 

He  told  a  similar  tale  of  a  famous  Austrian  guest- 
artist,  the  leading  Teutonic  exponent  of  his  day  of 
the  negative  side  in  the  never-ending  argument  of 
stage  technique  "to  feel  or  not  to  feel."  He  had 
mechanical  as  well  as  histrionic  genius,  and  his 
dramatic  art  had  become  so  mechanical  too,  towards 
the  end  of  his  career,  that  he  could  utilize  such  places 
in  his  great  parts  as  Hamlet's  soliloquy  for  thinking 
out  scientific  puzzles,  although  his  power  over  the 
emotions  of  his  audience  never  lost  its  effect. 

The  director's  own  story  was  a  real  romance. 
While  still  on  tlie  upward  side  of  the  hill  of  fame, 
he  had  met  and  loved  the  wife  of  a  nobleman,  the 
scion  of  an  ancient  house.  She  had  been  maid-of- 
honour  at  the  most  exclusive  court  in  Europe,  the  con- 
—134— 


AMNERIS    AS    I    NOW    DRESS    IT 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

fidante  of  the  royal  family,  and  was  said  to  know  the 
true  story  of  many  of  the  mysterious  incidents  in  court 
history.  In  fact  she  was  supposed  to  have  been  mar- 
ried off  hurriedly  to  her  much  older  husband  to  get 
her  away  from  the  royal  circle  of  whose  secrets  she 
knew  altogether  too  many.  The  infatuation  of  the 
singer  for  the  lady  was  mutual,  and  in  course  of  time 
a  boy  was  born  to  them,  who  reached  the  age  of  six 
years  before  the  noble  husband  consented  to  divorce 
his  wife,  or  rather,  I  think,  his  lawyers  consented  for 
him,  as  by  that  time  dissipation  had  quite  softened 
whatever  brain  he  may  have  had  to  begin  with.  This 
mental  condition  of  his  gave  her  the  care  of  their  chil- 
dren, and  in  Metz  their  youngest  son,  their  daughter  a 
girl  of  about  twenty,  and  the  director's  little  boy  all 
lived  together.  At  holiday  times  another  of  her  sons, 
a  most  charming  young  fellow,  a  lieutenant  in  a  crack 
cavalry  regiment,  used  to  visit  them  too.  She  invited 
my  sister  and  me  to  meet  him,  and  the  whole  family 
often  attended  the  opera  together.  He  liked  me  in 
several  roles  and  used  to  send  me  wonderful  flowers. 
I  still  have  a  huge  green  bowl  which  he  sent  me  filled 
with  violets,  in  return  for  the  photograph  for  which 
he  had  begged.  He  was  an  example  of  the  most  ele- 
gant type  of  young  officer,  the  aristocrat  of  Uradlige 
Familie,  fair,  with  delicate  features;  his  six  feet  of 
slimness,  with  long  slender  limbs  and  very  little  body, 
—135— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

clothed  in  his  glove-fitting  uniform.  He  had  the 
fashionable  three  creases  across  the  front  of  his 
smart  Hussar  jacket  where  his  tummy  should  have 
been.  His  poor  little  story  turned  into  tragedy.  He 
contracted  consumption  and  did  not  tell  his  people,  but 
used  their  influence  to  get  himself  transferred  to 
German  West  Africa,  on  the  plea  of  wanting  to  see 
service.  Arrived  there,  he  quietly  shot  himself  one 
evening  as  the  easiest  way  out  of  a  life  that  promised 
him  nothing  but  misery.  A  sort  of  malignant  fate 
seemed  to  pursue  the  children  of  that  first  marriage, 
for  the  charming  young  daughter  also  came  to  a  sud- 
den and  most  tragic  end,  as  I  shall  tell  later  on. 

The  director's  wife  was  very  nice  to  us.  She  often 
invited  us  to  visit  her  although  we  did  so  but  seldom. 
Her  rooms  were  filled  with  relics  of  her  former  life 
— portraits  of  herself  as  lady-in-waiting  to  the  Em- 
press of  Austria,  in  court  dress,  portraits  of  her  Em- 
press, old  photographs  of  groups  on  terraces  and  at 
castle  gates,  almost  every  person  in  them  a  "person- 
age." She  herself  still  wore  her  hair  as  her  Empress 
had  done,  in  a  coronet  of  narrow  braids  set  round  her 
head.  She  said  that  they  were  sewn  together  with 
the  same  coloured  silk  as  the  hair  every  morning 
after  being  braided,  to  make  them  stand  up.  With 
us  she  always  played  the  grande  dame,  apparently 
quite  without  effort,  but  there  were  stories  about  her 
—136— 


THE  STORY  OF  A  COURT-LADY 

which  seemed  to  show  that  she  could  be  something 
very  different. 

She  certainly  could  talk  most  interestingly  of  her 
former  grandeur.  One  of  her  tales  was  of  a  lady 
of  the  court  who  owned  the  smallest  dog  that  any  one 
had  ever  seen.  It  was  so  tiny  that  she  used  to  carry 
it,  when  in  evening  dress,  in  the  front  of  her  decol- 
letage.  One  night  at  dinner  as  she  leaned  forward 
to  eat  her  soup,  the  dog  fell  into  the  plate.  There 
was  vermicelli  in  the  soup,  and  before  she  could  fish 
it  out  of  this  entanglement,  the  poor  little  thing  was 
drowned!  Another  time  the  Frau  Direktor  showed 
us  a  photograph  of  a  very  slim  and  shapely  young 
dragoon  in  full  regalia,  cloak  and  all,  holding  a  letter 
up  to  hide  his  face.  As  there  was  evidently  a  story 
we  begged  her  to  tell  it  to  us.  She  said  that  there 
had  been  a  certain  young  married  Countess  of  the 
court,  who  was  known  as  a  great  prude  and  was  al- 
ways boasting  of  her  exaggerated  wifely  devotion. 
Her  airs  became,  said  the  Frau  Direktor,  quite  in- 
sufferable, and  so  she  herself  resolved  to  put  such 
armour-plate  virtue  to  the  test.  At  Carnival  time, 
therefore,  she  dressed  herself  as  a  young  officer  for 
a  ball  at  which  the  Hofgesellschaft  was  to  be  present, 
and  a  very  dashing  figure  she  made,  according  to  the 
picture.  In  this  disguise  she  then  proceeded  to  give 
the  Countess  the  rush  of  her  life.  The  gallant  pur- 
—137— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

sued  the  virtuous  Countess  all  the  evening,  and  was 
rewarded  by  being  asked  to  escort  her  ladyship  to 
her  home.  In  the  carriage  the  "Lieutenant's"  at. 
tentions  became  still  more  pressing,  when  to  his  secret 
dismay,  the  fair  creature  suddenly  melted  entirely, 
cast  herself  into  his  arms,  and  swore  she  adored  him. 
Arrived  at  her  house,  the  "Lieutenant"  beat  a  hasty 
retreat  vowing  all  sorts  of  things  for  their  next  meet- 
ing, which  naturally  never  took  place.  But  the  van- 
ished Lieutenant  did  not  resemble  the  gentlemen  of 
Virginia  who  kiss  and  never  tell,  for  the  Countess' 
share  in  the  story  leaked  out,  and  her  reputation  for 
unassailable  devotion  was  irreparably  damaged,  to 
the  great  satisfaction  of  all  her  acquaintance. 


-138— 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HUMAN   PASSIONS   AND    SMALLPOX 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  season,  the  director's  fam- 
ily was  still  in  the  country,  where  they  re- 
mained until  the  opera  had  been  running  for 
some  time.  We  met  his  wife  and  daughter  for  the 
first  time  at  a  luncheon  given  by  him  at  the  hotel 
where  we  had  arranged  to  take  our  two  o'clock  din- 
ner, after  trying  all  sorts  of  unsuccessful  ways  of 
dining  in  private.  The  stage  manager  of  the  drama, 
the  first  and  second  Kapellmeister,  the  "Bureau  Chef," 
the  Heldentenor,  Heldenbariton,  High  Dramatic, 
Coloratura,  my  sister  and  myself  were  all  invited. 
Just  as  we  were  seating  ourselves,  the  Schauspiel 
Regisseur,  Herr  S ,  noticed  that  there  were  thir- 
teen at  table.  He  turned  as  white  as  a  sheet,  jumped 
up,  and  scarcely  stopping  to  apologize,  hurriedly  left 
the  room,  nor  could  he  be  prevailed  upon  to  return, 
although  the  director  followed  him  into  the  hall  to  re- 
monstrate. He  protested  that  one  of  our  number  was 
certain  to  die  within  the  year  as  it  was,  and  he  wished 
to  insure  its  not  being  himself  by  refusing  to  sit 
—139— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

down  at  all.  Curiously  enough,  his  prophecy  came 
true,  for  the  Director's  young  step-daughter  died  very 
suddenly  soon  after. 

Herr  S was  a  most  unpleasant  person,  as  I 

discovered  later,  and  I  was  always  thankful  that  my 
identification  with  the  0 pern-Personal  kept  me  out  of 
his  way.  He  had  a  sort  of  spurious  veneer  and  in- 
gratiating manner,  which  was  at  variance  with  his 
hard,  square,  passion-scarred  countenance.  He  pre- 
tended an  enormous  admiration  for  the  American 
woman,  and  that  very  day  before  luncheon,  he  showed 
me  with  great  pride  a  small  American-made  patent- 
leather  shoe,  which  he  took  out  of  the  tail  pocket  of 
his  frock-coat,  telling  me  with  a  leer  that  it  belonged 
to  a  girl  of  my  country,  where  the  women  had  the  most 
beautiful  feet  in  the  world,  and  that  it  was  his  talis- 
man and  never  left  him!  He  bore  a  bad  name  among 
the  women  players  in  the  company.  One  of  the  little 
actresses,  a  girl  of  good  family,  in  her  first  season, 
used  to  tell  me  unpleasant  tales  of  him  in  her  rapid, 
ungrammatical  French,  whenever  I  met  her;  and  she 
always  referred  to  him  as  "That  beast!" 

Our  Heldentenor  of  that  season  was  an  uninter- 
esting personage,  a  quite  elderly  man  of  enormous 
routine  and  mediocre  equipment,  who  had  sung  in 
all  sorts  of  opera  houses  and  was  on  the  last  lap  of  a 
long  career.  He  was  said  to  be  nearly  sixty,  and 
—140— 


HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX 

was  quite  bald,  but  he  managed  to  make  a  surpris- 
ingly youthful  appearance  on  the  stage.  He  had 
been  at  it  so  long  that  he  could  make  an  attempt  at 
acting  almost  anything — even  youth.  His  sprightly 
legs  in  "Fra  Diavolo"  were  quite  adolescent.  He 
kept  himself  discreetly  to  himself,  and  was  never  seen 
in  the  cafes,  nor  on  the  streets  with  his  colleagues. 

His  greatest  joy  was  a  tiny  dog,  whose  tricks  he 
delighted  to  show  off  to  every  one.  The  little  thing 
would  whine  for  a  soprano,  growl  for  a  bass,  howl 
for  a  tenor,  bark  when  told  "The  Direktor's  coming," 
and  sit  up  and  beg  at  the  word  Gage  (salary,)  in  a 
very  amusing  way,  and  his  master  was  intensely  proud 
of  his  accomplishments. 

The  lyric  tenor  of  the  first  season  was  a  peasant 
from  Swabia,  with  a  droll  accent  and  a  lovely  voice 
which  he  forced  in  a  most  agonizing  manner.  He 
would  shake  all  over  when  he  sang  a  high  note,  and 
yet  his  natural  voice  ranged  easily  to  high  D  sharp — I 
have  even  heard  him  sing  an  E.  His  dialect  and  his 
ignorance  made  him  the  butt  of  the  company,  but  he 
was  very  goodnatured  and  took  it  all  in  good  part. 
He  used  to  say:  "Yes,  I  know — my  wife  is  a  French 
woman  and  she  tells  me  to  say  Mignon,  but  I'm  a 
peasant —  I  say  Mischnongj"  She  was  years  older 
than  he  and  of  better  class.  She  had  helped  him  to 
the  little  study  that  he  had  had,  and  out  of  gratitude 
—141— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

he  had  married  her,  but  they  were  said  to  disagree 
very  consistently. 

The  Heldenbariton  was  quite  a  nice  fellow,  big  and 
burly  with  a  good  voice;  he  was  a  great  favourite  with 
the  public,  whom  he  had  pleased  by  marrying,  out 
of  the  chorus,  a  townswoman  who  adored  him. 

The  second  Kapellmeister  was  a  vague,  weak  crea- 
ture, henpecked  by  his  vain  little  wife  who  was  never 
happy  unless  she  was  the  centre  of  some  one's  admira- 
tion. She  was  inordinately  proud  of  her  small  feet, 
and  our  little  friend  the  lyric  baritone  used  to  make 
her  furious,  by  insisting  that  mine  were  smaller  I 
Her  dream  was  to  go  on  the  stage  too,  if  only  to  sing 
pages  in  "Lohengrin"  and  "Tannhauser,"  and  later 
her  hope  was  realized,  I  heard,  when  several  of  them 
went  off  together  in  April  to  a  "Monatsoper"  on  the 
Russische  Grenze  (Russian  Frontier).  The  colora- 
tura soprano  was  a  Dutch  woman,  speaking  German 
with  more  accent  than  I  did.  She  was  very  fair, 
very  fat,  and  very  lazy,  and  she  had  a  capacity  for 
food  that  I  have  seen  equalled  but  never  surpassed. 
She  dined  with  us  daily,  and  woe  to  the  person  who 
had  to  serve  himself  from  a  dish  that  had  been  passed 
to  her!  Eat  until  you  could  hold  no  more  was  a 
part  of  the  creed  of  all  my  colleagues.  Anything 
short  of  absolute  repletion,  and  the  meal  was  con- 
sidered a  failure.  "Sind  Sie  salt?''  They  would 
—142— 


HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX 

ask  each  other  gravely — "/c/i  bin  nicht  satt!"  Mean- 
ing literally,  "Are  you  full?"  "/  am  not  full." 
And  this  was  a  grave  cause  of  resentment  against  the 
hotel  management.  I  must  say  that  most  of  them 
reached  this  desirable  consummation  long  before  the 
coloratura  soprano,  for  she  continued  placidly  as 
long  as  there  was  any  food  in  sight.  She  would  even 
finish  anything  left  on  another's  plate,  and  our  table 
always  looked  as  if  a  horde  of  locusts  had  visited 
it. 

Those  colleagues  of  my  first  engagement  are 
stamped  upon  my  memory — representing  as  they  did 
so  much  that  was  new  to  me, — a  new  nationality,  a 
new  profession,  and  in  many  cases  a  new  social  class. 
Take  them  all  together  they  were  a  pretty  decent  lot 
considering  their  antecedents  and  surroundings.  As 
a  general  rule,  I  think  the  actors  are  apt  to  be  of  a 
somewhat  higher  social  class  than  the  singers,  as  a  re- 
markable voice  occurs  when  and  where  it  will,  while 
a  vocation  for  the  acting  stage  presupposes  a  certain 
amount  of  education  and  refinement  of  surroundings, 
although  there  have  been,  of  course,  some  notable  ex- 
ceptions. 

They  wanted  us  to  meet  the  officers  of  the  different 
smart  regiments.  The  Red  Dragoons  in  particular 
were  supposed  to  be  all-powerful  in  deciding  the  suc- 
cess or  failure  of  a  singer,  and  the  colleagues  kindly 
—143— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

thought  we  ought  all  to  have  the  advantage  of  this. 
One  or  two  of  the  women  of  course  had  affairs  with 
them,  and  as  Marjorie  and  I  did  not  care  to  meet  the 
officers  in  just  that  society,  we  were  sometimes  hard 
put  to  it  to  find  a  good  excuse.  Once  my  sister  went 
to  bed,  though  perfectly  well,  for  several  days,  to 
avoid  a  particularly  pressing  invitation.  Later  we 
met  these  officers  through  letters  from  our  relatives, 
and  liked  some  of  them  tremendously.  Even  their 
affairs  were  the  outcome  of  the  system,  and  did  no 
particular  harm  to  any  one. 

The  opera  soubrette  had  one  of  years'  standing 
with  a  tall  ungainly  White  Dragoon.  He  was  a  harm- 
less idiot,  and  she  a  smart  German-Polish  Jewess,  a 
nice  little  thing.  We  each  had  a  "Benefiz"  before 
leaving  the  Metz  engagement,  when  we  were  showered 
with  flowers  and  gifts  from  our  friends  and  admirers, 

also  sharing  in  the  box-office  receipts.     R ,  the 

soubrette,  told  us  the  day  after  hers,  still  breathless 
from  rage,  that  "Er" — she  never  called  him  anything 
but  "He" — had  sent  her  an  umbrella,  bound  in  the 
middle  of  a  huge  sheaf  of  roses.  He  had  not  passed 
it  over  the  foot-lights,  so  that  every  one  might  see  its 
splendour,  but  had  left  it  at  her  rooms.  When  he 
called  on  her  expecting  soft  thanks,  she  berated  him 
soundly,  and  succeeded  in  so  enraging  his  usually 
—144— 


HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX 

placid  self  tliat  he  threw  his  big  sabre  through  the 
window,  sending  it  crashing  into  the  court  below. 

One  handsome  Red  Dragoon,  a  notorious  con- 
noisseur of  music  and  women,  and  believed  absolutely 
irresistible,  always  sat  in  a  box  at  our  right  from  the 
stage.  His  one  reputable  passion  was  music.  He 
had  at  that  time  an  affair  with  a  Dutch  woman,  who 
had  been  handsome  and  distinguee — she  was  pitifully 
his  slave.  Going  to  the  theatre  one  evening  we  saw 
her  approaching  from  one  direction  in  the  big  court 
in  front  of  the  theatre,  as  he  approached  from  an- 
other. She  smiled  infatuatedly  at  him  but  he  passed 
her  without  a  look — perhaps  his  idea  of  a  tribute  to 
my  sister  and  me.  I  felt  sorry  for  her  as  the  joy  left 
her  face. 

Several  years  after,  while  touring  in  Holland,  in  a 
charming  little  place  where  we  went  to  pass  a  free 
afternoon,  we  saw  this  same  woman.  She  had  found 
the  strength  to  shake  off  her  German  master,  had 
married  a  countryman  and  looked  prosperous  and 
happy. 

Neither  Marjorie  nor  I  ever  received  an  offensive 
word  or  look  from  an  officer.  They  used  sometimes 
to  send  me  postcards  after  a  Carmen  or  Amneris 
night,  closely  scribbled  over  with  signatures  and 
greetings  and  phrases  of  admiration,  all  highly  re- 
—145— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


spectful.  It  always  pleased  me  very  much  to  receive 
these  cards. 

The  Genossenschaft  members  of  most  theatres  or- 
ganize a  fete  every  year  for  the  benefit  of  their  society, 
and  that  spring  we  had  a  fancy  dress  ball.  A  lady  is 
chosen  at  these  balls  by  popular  vote  to  be  Rose 
Queen.  I  was  chosen  that  time  and  had  to  parade 
around  the  room  on  the  arm  of  a  portly  Major,  who 
often  sent  me  flowers  and  books  of  his  own  poems.  I 
wore  my  Carmen  dress  of  black  satin,  with  gold 
flowers,  and  my  scarlet  Spanish  shawl.  There  was 
much  cheap  champagne  drunk  to  the  popular  toast  of 
"General  Quenousamong."  This  was  originally 
"Que  nous  aimons'  (To  those  we  love),  and  the  "gen- 
eral" meant  that  every  one  was  to  join  in.  The 
French  touch  was  considered  elegant,  just  as  Couzank 
was  the  polite  word  for  cousin,  and  Satank  for  satin. 
Balls  of  this  kind  are  highly  popular  and  a  great  con- 
trast to  the  usually  simple  lives  of  these  small-town 
people. 

One  form  of  simplicity  I  never  adopted  was  the 
quite  general  one  of  eating  their  evening  supper,  con- 
sisting usually  of  a  bit  of  sausage,  and  black  bread 
and  butter,  out  of  bits  of  paper  casually  put  down 
amongst  the  objects  on  the  table  in  their  bedrooms. 
When  you  had  finished,  you  simply  rolled  up  and 
threw  away  the  greasy  papers  and  the  thing  was  over. 
—146— 


HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX 

Sometimes  a  meal  may  be  captured  free.  One  of 
our  "comics"  in  Metz  had  to  fish  at  the  back  of  the 
stage  in  an  operetta.  He  was  always  furnished  with 
a  salt  herring  by  the  property  man,  which  he  would 
suspend  solemnly  out  of  sight  of  the  audience  for  a 
while,  then  slowly  draw  up,  and  proceed  to  eat.  A 
clean  picked  spine  was  all  that  remained  by  the  end 
of  the  act,  and  he  had  had  his  supper. 

Often  the  performances  supplied  me  with  welcome 
comic  relief  behind  the  scenes.  I  learned  for  in- 
stance, that  the  text  of  the  Anvil  chorus  sung  round 
me,  as  I  lay  on  the  canvas  rock  couch  of  Azucena,  in 
"Trovatore,"  was:  *'Ich  habe  Dir  schon  laengst 
gesagt,  die  Wurst  sie  schmeckt  nach  Seife' — "I  told 
you  long  ago,  the  sausage  tastes  of  soap."  Also  the 
soldiers  in  "Faust"  made  their  rollicking  return  from 
the  wars  to  the  words:  "He — ring  und  Apfel — Kar- 
toffelnsalat."  "Herring  and  apple — potato  salad." 
Siegmund  grows  woefully  vulgar,  and  the  opening 
bars  of  his  love  song  to  his  sister  always  say  now  to 
me:     "Winter  Struempfe  riechen  im  Monat  Mai." 

Once  in  "Tiefland"  the  old  man  in  the  first  act  was 
presented  with  a  large  lump  of  Limburger  cheese, 
which  he  had  to  sniff  and  hold  gratefully  for  a  long 
time,  while  his  rejoicing  colleagues  slapped  their 
knees  with  glee  in  the  wings.  Sometimes  the  humour 
was  replaced  by  other  less  agreeable  emotions.  For 
—147— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

my  Benefiz,  the  last  year  of  my  engagement,  I  was  to 
sing  Carmen.  I  wanted  a  popular  guest  tenor  from  a 
neighbouring  Hoftheater  to  be  my  Jose,  and  he  finally 
agreed  to  come.  He  would  not  come  in  time  for  re- 
hearsal and  I  did  not  see  him  until  I  turn  my  head 
in  the  first  recitative  and  see  him  making  his  sword 
chain.  From  then  on,  he  directed  me  in  lordly  tones 
throughout  the  first  act.  I  had  often  sung  Carmen  in 
Metz  and  the  audience  knew  most  of  my  business  and 
expected  it;  also  as  I  had  prepared  the  role  in  Paris 
and  spent  months  of  study  on  it  I  did  not  see  why  all 
of  my  business  should  be  changed  on  my  own  festive 
night.  Therefore  in  our  short  talk  before  the  second 
act,  I  told  him  my  positions  as  nicely  as  I  could,  he 
saying  to  everything,  "Aber  warum?  Warum?" 
(But  why,  why?).  I  stood  this  as  long  as  I  could 
and  told  him  all  the  warums,  till  finally  I  said  ''Be- 
cause I  want  to!"  At  this  he  lost  his  temper  and  left 
the  stage.  I  was  surprised,  but  supposed  he  was 
nervous.  From  then  on,  things  went  from  bad  to 
worse.  Everything  Carmen  said  to  Jose,  he  thought 
Howard  was  saying  to  him.  I  tried  to  whisper  that 
I  meant  nothing  by  it — that  that  was  the  way  I  played 
it,  but  he  grew  blacker  and  blacker.  Finally  in  the 
last  act  I  struck  him  with  my  fan,  my  usual  business 
to  make  Jose  let  Carmen  pass.  He  rushed  at  me  and 
caught  my  wrists  and  shouted,  ^^Was  faellt  Ihnen  denn 
—148— 


HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX 

em?"  ("What's  the  matter  with  you?")  I  was 
frightfully  upset  and  nearly  crying  by  then,  but  had  to 
go  on.  At  the  last  as  I  lay  on  the  floor  and  he  stood 
over  me,  he  deliberately  threw  his  heavy  dagger  in 
my  face,  and  I,  a  corpse,  had  to  move  my  head  to 
avoid  being  hurt.  He  rushed  to  his  dressing  room 
and  cried  and  shouted  for  a  half  hour  before  his 
wife  dared  to  go  in  and  calm  him.  I  believe  it  was 
all  jealousy.  He  had  been  most  popular  in  the  town, 
and  could  not  bear  to  share  a  performance  with  any 
one.  The  next  day  I  could  hardly  hobble;  all  my 
bones  seemed  wrenched ;  but  every  one  was  most  sym- 
pathetic and  kind. 

The  bells  in  Metz  were  most  numerous  and  de- 
pressing. The  cathedral  near  us  chimed  all  day  an 
out-of-tune  singsong,  which  the  natives  said  was,  "/c/t 
bin  todt  und  homm  nicht  wieder!"  ("I  am  dead 
and  shall  not  come  again!") 

The  depression  of  the  first  year  culminated  in  a 
smallpox  epidemic,  which  broke  out  shortly  before 
the  theatre  closed.  Marjorie  dreamed  of  it  just  be- 
fore it  happened,  and  that  I  died  of  it,  which,  of 
course,  haunted  her  all  through  the  outbreak.  It  was 
frightfully  mismanaged  by  the  authorities.  The  sus- 
pects were  called  for  by  policemen  and  carried  from 
the  houses  to  an  open  wagon,  (this  in  February  and 
March,)  and  driven  to  the  hospitals.  The  Kaserne 
—149— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

or  barracks  where  cases  occurred,  were  isolated;  but 
in  our  daily  walks  we  passed  them  with  shudders. 
We  were  both  so  tired  and  had  had  so  many  shocks 
and  eye-openers  as  to  what  life  really  is,  that  this 
last  nightmare  completely  obsessed  and  unnerved  us. 
Our  policeman  neighbour  carried  suspects,  and  of 
course  his  uniform  was  never  even  fumigated  and  we 
knew  it. 

The  dear  little  daughter  of  the  director's  wife 
was  taken  away  from  home  one  night,  in  spite  of  her 
parents'  remonstrances.  She  was  ill  of  rheumatic 
fever,  and  the  authorities  heard  of  it,  pronounced  it 
smallpox,  and  took  her  away  in  the  open  carriage. 
She  died  in  a  few  days,  and  no  one  ever  knew  whether 
it  was  smallpox  or  not.  Her  mother  never  quite 
got  over  it;  the  child  was  so  sweet  and  young. 

The  wagon  used  to  stand  in  the  street  before  a 
suspect  house,  with  children  playing  around  it.  The 
police  seemed  to  run  the  whole  thing,  and  would 
carry  bedding  out  of  the  houses  and  leave  it  to  be 
burned  in  the  street.  We  were  told  that  the  very 
poor  used  to  steal  this  bedding  at  night.  Of  course 
we  were  vaccinated,  but  it  did  not  take.  The  last 
performances  of  the  season  were  abandoned,  as  every 
one  was  afraid  of  crowded  places,  and  I  left  for 
Berlin  on  business.  While  there  my  throat  became 
—150— 


HUMAN  PASSIONS  AND  SMALLPOX 

frightfully  sore,  and  of  course  I  thought,  "Aha!  I 
have  it!"  And  of  course  I  didn't  have  it.  I  returned 
worn  out  to  Paris  and  rested  there. 

About  this  time  I  went  first  to  Jean  de  Reszke.  His 
beautiful  house,  near  the  Bois,  with  its  little  theatre, 
was  the  scene  of  much  nervousness  and  struggles  to 
become  prime  donne.  The  master  opened  my  eyes  to 
the  beauties  of  style.  His  Wagner,  better  than  the 
best  Wagnerian  singer  I  have  ever  heard,  his  French 
style,  the  wonderfully  Italian  and  yet  manly  interpre- 
tations he  gave  the  Puccini  and  Verdi  roles,  were  all 
a  marvellous  inspiration  to  me.  With  a  pupil  he  con- 
sidered intelligent  he  would  take  no  end  of  trouble, 
and  a  ''Bien"  from  him  was  a  jewel  above  price. 
The  tales  de  Reszke  pupils  sometimes  tell  me  of  the 
wonderful  things  he  told  them  and  predicted  for  them 
have  always  amused  me,  because  in  all  the  time  I 
have  been  in  his  studio  I  have  never  heard  anything 
like  it. 

I  was  so  infatuated  by  my  work  with  him,  and  so 
humbled  at  the  vista  of  endless  effort  it  opened  before 
me,  before  his  ideas  could  be  carried  out  in  every 
tone  one  sang,  that  I  asked  him  one  day  if  I  should 
not  spend  the  next  winter  in  his  studio,  and  leave  the 
stage  for  a  year.  He  thought  it  over  seriously,  and 
advised  me  to  go  on  with  the  stage  work,  for  the  rou- 
—151— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

tine  I  was  getting  was  as  valuable  a  teacher  as  he  was. 
It  would  have  been  a  great  privilege  to  have  spent  an 
entire  year  with  him,  and  if  I  could  have  afforded  it, 
I  should  have  done  so. 


—152— 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DISCOURAGEMENTS   THAT    LEAD   TO   A    COURT 
THEATRE 

THE  second  year  of  my  first  engagement  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  I  was  much  exercised 
over  the  next  step.  I  wanted  to  try  for  one 
of  the  Hoftheaters,  not  the  very  largest  and  most 
famous,  but  a  place  with  a  good  orchestra  and  care- 
fully prepared  productions.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
vacancy  in  just  such  a  theatre,  and  my  agent  offered 
me  a  contract  for  a  great  Stadttheater,  probably  the 
first  municipal  opera  house  in  Germany.  Their  con- 
tralto, who  was  a  great  favourite,  had  a  contract  for 
a  big  Royal  Opera,  and  they  felt  sure  she  would  be 
engaged.  With  some  misgivings,  I  signed  the 
Vertrag,  and  then  began  the  long  dickering  to  arrange 
the  guest  performances  which  should  decide  my  fate. 
They  finally  asked  me  to  sing  Azucena  at  an  afternoon 
performance.  It  had  taken  so  long  to  find  a  date 
which  suited  us  both,  that  a  good  deal  of  time  had 
elapsed  between  the  signing  of  the  contract  and  their 
letter.  I,  of  course,  refused  to  sing  an  afternoon 
—153— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

performance,  and  it  was  finally  arranged  that  I 
should  sing  Carmen  on  a  certain  date.  There  is  a 
sort  of  unwritten  law  that  tliey  shall  choose  one  part, 
and  you  another,  but  it  is  not  always  observed.  This 
difficulty  over  the  role  should  have  warned  me  that 
there  was  something  wrong.  Such  a  disagreement  is 
a  pretty  good  indication  that  your  contract  will  not  be 
made  perfekt. 

I  travelled  all  night,  and  arrived  to  find  a  rehearsal 
on  the  same  day  as  the  performance.  It  was  what  is 
called  an  Arrangier  Probe  fuer  den  Cast,  rehearsal 
without  orchestra,  of  the  scenes  in  which  the  "Guest" 
takes  part.  All  the  colleagues  were  nice  to  me,  but  I 
saw  the  contralto  watching  from  the  wings,  and  she 
gave  me  a  dagger  glare;  so  I  thought  that  there  was 
"something  rotten  in  the  state  of  Denmark,"  as  she  was 
supposed  to  be  leaving  voluntarily.  I  sang  well  that 
night,  and  had  a  real  success  with  the  audience,  and 
with  my  colleagues.  They  all  said  to  me,  "Oh,  you 
are  certainly  engaged  after  a  hit  like  that."  But  I 
felt  a  premonition  which  increased  to  a  certainty  when 
I  heard  that  the  Director  had  not  troubled  to  watch 
my  performance,  but  had  left  the  theatre  in  the 
middle  of  the  first  act. 

I  left  the  next  morning,  and  in  a  day  I  received  a 
letter  from  the  Director  saying  that  I  had  not  had 
quite  enough  experience  to  sing  their  repertoire.  I 
—154^ 


A  COURT  THEATRE 


learned  some  time  afterwards  that  their  contralto  had 
sung  one  of  her  guest-performances  before  I  went 
there,  had  failed  to  make  a  sufficient  impression, 
and  had  decided  to  remain  where  she  was.  This  had 
been  settled  between  her  and  the  Direction  before  I 
sang  at  all;  still  they  had  let  me  sing  with  no  prospect 
of  an  engagement,  and  allowed  it  to  appear  to  be  my 
fault  that  I  was  not  engaged.  Legally,  of  course, 
they  were  quite  within  their  rights,  as  I  could  have 
sued  them  if  they  had  not  given  me  a  chance  to  sing  the 
Gastspiel  called  for  in  my  contract.  But  any  singer, 
in  such  circumstances,  would  infinitely  prefer  to  be 
told  the  facts.  Later,  I  once  begged  a  director  to 
tell  me  if  it  were  really  worth  while  to  gastieren  in  his 
opera  house.  He  said,  certainly,  they  were  not  con- 
sidering any  one  else  and  really  wanted  to  hear  me. 
I  sang  there  with  one  of  the  biggest  personal  suc- 
cesses I  have  ever  made,  the  Biir germeister  and  all 
the  Committee  (it  was  a  municipal  theatre  managed 
by  a  Committee  witli  the  Mayor  at  the  head)  came  on 
the  stage  to  congratulate  me,  and  I  had  to  take  nine 
curtain  calls  alone  after  the  last  act.  I  was  not  en- 
gaged, however,  and  found  out  that  they  had  already 
decided  to  engage  a  contralto  who  had  sung  one 
Gastspiel  before  me  and  the  other  directly  afterwards. 
This  sort  of  thing  happens  even  to  the  most  expe- 
rienced native-born  singer.  One  tenor  in  D.  sang 
—155— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

a  guest  performance  auf  Engagement,  and  learned 
that  he  was  the  seventh  who  had  tried  for  that  position 
in  the  same  part,  and  they  kept  on  their  original  one 
after  all!  Of  course,  these  performances  are  paid, 
but  the  fact  that  one  has  sung  without  being  engaged 
becomes  known  everywhere  through  the  weekly 
theatrical  paper,  which  gives  the  repertoire  and  singers 
in  each  opera,  of  all  the  reputable  opera  houses  in 
Germany.  But  the  fact  that  the  management  never 
intended  to  engage  you  is  not  generally  known.  If 
you  have  bad  luck  like  this  three  or  four  times,  it 
injures  your  standing  as  an  artist.  The  Genossen- 
schaft  or  stage  society  is  trying  to  make  each  theatre 
confine  itself  to  issuing  only  one  contract  at  a  time  to 
fill  any  vacancy  they  may  have,  which  will  largely 
prevent  this  evil. 

A  second  disappointment  followed  right  on  the 
heels  of  the  first  one.  I  had  a  second  string  to  my 
bow,  as  there  was  a  vacancy  in  a  very  good  Stadt- 
theater  for  which  I  was  anxious  to  try.  I  opened 
negotiations  with  them  through  my  agent,  and  after 
the  usual  delay  arranged  the  Gastspiels.  Their  con- 
tralto was  also  leaving  voluntarily.  I  was  to  sing  the 
two  Erdas  and  Ulrica  in  the  "Masked  Ball."  When 
I  got  there,  I  found  this  changed  to  the  Erdas  and 
Fricka,  which  I  had  not  sung  for  a  year.  Then  they 
demanded  Frau  Reich  in  "Merry  Wives"  without  a 
—156— 


A  COURT  THEATRE 


rehearsal  instead  of  the  "Siegfried"  Erda.  I  was 
very  unhappy,  for  I  knew  from  this  that  things  were 
going  badly,  and  that  they  had  no  intention  of  en- 
gaging me,  no  matter  how  or  what  I  sang.  The  Di- 
rection wrote  me  that,  in  spite  of  my  great  talents, 
my  voice  was  not  quite  large  enough  for  their  house. 
The  truth  was  that  their  contralto,  who  was  a  Jewess 
and  therefore  of  the  same  religion  as  most  of  the 
committee,  had  been  offered  an  increase  of  salary  to 
remain,  and  had  accepted.  The  Direction  themselves 
felt  badly  over  the  way  they  had  treated  me,  and  the 
Intendant  telephoned  to  a  Hoftheater,  not  far  off, 
where  he  knew  there  was  going  to  be  a  vacancy,  to 
recommend  me  to  their  Director  in  the  highest  terms. 
This  was  Darmstadt,  the  capital  of  a  small  prin- 
cipality, famous  for  its  opera  house,  which  had  ex- 
isted for  a  hundred  years.  It  is  a  town  of  about 
100,000  inhabitants,  and  the  residence  of  the  reign- 
ing Grand  Duke,  Ernst  Ludwig.  His  mother  had  been 
the  Princess  Alice  of  England,  daughter  of  Queen 
Victoria.  He  and  his  second  wife,  Eleanore,  lived 
with  their  two  little  sons  at  the  palace  Princess  Alice's 
money  had  built  for  them.  It  was  really  not  a 
palace  at  all,  but  a  large,  roomy,  comfortable  house. 
His  beautiful  sister,  Alexandra,  married  the  Czar  of 
Russia;  another  sister  married  the  Kaiser's  brother. 
Prince  Henry  of  Prussia. 

—157— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

The  opera  house,  called  Hoftheater,  stood  high  in 
the  second  class.  In  the  first  class  are  Berlin,  Vienna, 
Dresden  and  Munich,  with  possibly  Hamburg.  Then 
come  Cologne,  Frankfurt  and  Leipsic,  and  the  Hof- 
theaters  Hanover,  Stuttgart,  Mannheim,  Wiesbaden, 
Darmstadt,  etc.  In  the  third  class  are  the  smaller 
Hoftheaters  like  Coburg,  and  the  Stadttheaters  like 
Mainz.  In  the  fourth,  are  the  smallest  Stadttheaters , 
and  last  of  all  come  the  little  towns  which  have  Mo- 
natsoper,  or  a  one  month  season  of  opera  in  the  year, 
after  the  seven  month  theatres  are  closed.  The 
first  class  houses  are  open  all  the  year,  with  a  four 
or  six  weeks'  vacation  for  the  singers  at  different 
times,  so  that  they  shall  not  all  be  away  together. 
The  next  class  has  a  nine  months'  season,  but  in  the 
Hoftheaters  the  salary  is  paid  in  monthly  instal- 
ments for  twelve  months  in  the  year. 

I  took  the  train  for  the  town,  not  caring  much 
whether  they  wanted  me  or  not.  Perhaps  that  was 
the  right  attitude,  for  after  hearing  one  song  with 
piano  accompaniment,  the  Intendant  offered  me  a  five- 
year  contract.  I  asked  them  to  make  it  three;  the 
town  seemed  so  small  and  quiet  that  I  did  not  like  the 
sound  of  five  years  in  it.  The  salary  was  the  highest 
they  had  ever  paid  a  contralto.     The  Director  said  at 

once,  "How  much  did  they  offer  you  in ?"  and 

agreed  to  pay  me  only  500  marks  a  year  less.  I  ar- 
—158— 


A  COURT  THEATRE 


ranged  to  gastieren  very  soon  in  Carmen,  with  Nancy 
and  one  other  part  to  follow.  I  sang  only  the  Carmen 
on  trial,  however,  as  the  Grand  Duke,  who  had  come 
in  especially  from  his  country  place  to  hear  me,  en- 
gaged me  personally  after  the  first  act.  I  had  a  won- 
derful and  rare  chance  to  "be  grand"  when  the  Direc- 
tor told  me  this.  He  asked  me  if  I  would  be  willing 
to  sing  my  other  Gastspiel  of  Nancy.  I  replied  loftily 
that  I  really  could  not  do  so,  as  I  must  return  to 
Paris. 

Six  days  before  the  opening  of  the  season,  accord- 
ing to  contract,  I  arrived  with  my  sister  in  the  town 
which  was  to  be  my  home  for  the  next  three  years.  It 
is  surrounded  by  forests  and  looked  very  pretty;  but 
oh!  so  quiet!  The  Hof theater  stands  in  a  park,  and 
is  a  classic-looking  structure  seating  1,400  persons. 
It  has  been  there  for  a  hundred  years,  and  runs  by 
clockwork.  A  building  behind  it,  more  than  half 
as  large  as  the  theatre  itself,  contains  the  ballet  school 
and  scene-painting  lofts  and  a  complete  dressmaking 
and  tailoring  establishment,  with  the  wardrobe  mis- 
tress and  master  at  the  head,  where  all  costumes  are 
made.  They  are  also  kept  here,  and  the  collection 
is  a  very  complete  one,  with  endless  sets  of  uniforms, 
armour  and  historical  costumes  of  all  kinds.  Men's 
dress  is  supplied ;  women  who  have  a  salary  of  more 
than  3600  marks  ($900)  are  supposed  to  supply  their 
—159— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

own,  but  if  you  are  nice  to  the  wardrobe  mistress  she 
will  usually  contrive  to  find  what  you  want,  though 
you  must  get  permission  from  the  Direction  to  wear 
it.  Excellent  dressers  are  provided  for  tlie  princi- 
pals, and  a  hair-dresser  to  put  on  your  wig.  There 
is  a  small  charge  if  it  requires  dressing.  The  theatre 
pays  these  people,  but  you  are  supposed  to  tip  them 
on  New  Year's  Day,  also  the  stage  doorkeeper,  the 
man  who  brings  you  the  scores  of  your  parts,  and  any 
one  else  you  like,  though  only  the  first  four  expect  it; 
and  10  marks  ($2.50)  is  a  liberal  tip.  You  are  ex- 
pected to  keep  your  costumes  at  home,  and  send 
them  over  in  a  basket-trunk  on  the  morning  of  the  per- 
formance for  your  dresser  to  unpack,  press  and  hang 
up.  You  pay  a  man  $1.00  a  montli  to  do  this,  though 
many  singers  send  their  servant. 

There  are  four  Kapellmeisters,  the  first  one  who  re- 
joiced in  the  title  of  Hofrat  (Court  councillor),  the 
second,  and  third,  and  a  fourth  for  the  chorus.  Felix 
Weingartner  is  now  first  conductor  there.  The  or- 
chestra consists  of  sixty  musicians,  and  is  really  good. 
They  have  played  together  so  long,  that  they  can 
play  almost  anything,  and  they  excel  in  Mozart,  whom, 
with  Wagner,  they  adore,  while  they  look  with  con- 
descension upon  the  works  of  Puccini.  The  scenery 
of  this  particular  opera  house  used  to  be  famous. 
They  were  the  first  to  have  moons  which  really  rose 
—160— 


A  COURT  THEATRE 


about  as  slowly  as  the  real  one,  and  they  are  still 
unique  in  possessing  a  wonderful  clock-work  sun, 
which  contracts  as  it  rises.  The  Ring  dramas,  with 
their  complicated  settings,  are  given  without  a  single 
hitch;  the  "Magic  Flute"  is  presented  with  some  nine- 
teen scenes,  all  dark  changes;  and  this  is  one  of  the 
four  theatres  in  the  world  where  Goethe's  "Faust"  is 
given  entire,  on  four  consecutive  evenings.  The  ar- 
tist, Kempin,  who  is  responsible  for  all  new  scenery, 
is  a  man  of  considerable  reputation,  outside  the  town 
as  well  as  in  it,  as  a  painter.  He  does  excellent 
things  when  he  is  allowed  a  free  hand,  as  he  inclines 
very  strongly  toward  modem  styliziert  (conven- 
tionalized) scenery  d  la  Reinhardt.  His  production 
of  "La  Belle  Helene"  was  worth  seeing,  and  his 
"Gretchens  room"  in  "Faust"  is  one  of  the  most 
charming  stage  settings  I  have  ever  seen. 

There  is  a  large,  thoroughly  trained  chorus,  each 
with  a  repertoire  of  over  fifty  operas,  whose  members 
are  paid,  as  a  rule,  about  125  marks  a  month  ($26), 
everything  but  modem  dress  supplied.  None  re- 
ceives more,  except  those  who  fill  small  "speaking 
parts."  In  a  ballet  of  forty  the  dancers  receive  from 
75  to  80  marks  apiece  with  all  costumes  fumished. 
Knowing  these  figures,  as  I  do,  it  is  hard  for  me  to 
credit  those  I  once  saw  quoted  in  a  music  journal 
from  a  German  book  on  the  subject.  The  author 
—161— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

stated  that  the  ballet  girls  in  Hanover  receive  only  10 
marks  ($2.50)  a  month.  Hanover,  being  a  larger 
city  and  affiliated  with  Berlin  pays  better  salaries  than 
this  opera  house  of  which  I  am  writing.  He  also  said 
that  the  "leading  lady"  in  Eisenach  had  only  15  marks 
a  month!  As  I,  as  a  beginner  and  foreigner,  in 
Metz,  received  $35  a  month,  I  cannot  but  think  that 
he  had  forgotten  to  add  the  cipher  and  meant  150 
marks!  The  costume  expenses  that  he  spoke  of,  are 
certainly  a  great  tax  upon  the  German  actresses  in 
smaller  theatres ;  but  I  think  I  have  shown  how  greatly 
the  wardrobe  of  a  singer  in  such  a  theatre  may  be  sim- 
plified, especially  by  a  thirfty  German  woman,  up  to 
all  the  dodges  of  different  pairs  of  sleeves  for  the 
same  gown.  After  all,  costume  expenses  are  as  high 
or  as  low  as  one  makes  them.  None  of  our  American 
girls  thinks  of  becoming  an  actress  on  the  European 
stage,  so  these  costume  expenses  need  not  trouble  her 
personally,  and  the  majority  of  German  actresses  man- 
age to  live  on  their  earnings.  The  principals  in  my 
theatre  received  from  $900  to  $3500  a  year,  which 
last  named  sum  is  paid  to  the  Heldentenor,  and  on 
which  he  is  rich.  The  rent  of  a  good  flat  is  700-800 
marks  a  year  ($180-$200).  I  paid  1100  marks 
($275)  for  mine  because  it  was  situated  on  the  best 
street,  near  the  palace.  It  contained  four  rooms, 
with  kitchen,  bath,  maid's  room  and  two  balconies.  A 
—162— 


A  COURT  THEATRE 


good  general  servant  receives  25  marks  a  month 
($6.24).  Her  wages  and  everything  about  her  are 
regulated  by  police  inspection.  The  Polizei,  in  fact, 
regulates  the  whole  town,  even  the  closing  of  the 
theatre,  which  can  only  be  shut  in  case  of  destruction 
by  fire,  serious  epidemic  or  martial  law. 

The  same  system  of  alternating  plays  with  opera 
obtains  in  all  but  the  very  largest  German  cities. 
We  had  some  splendid  actors  in  our  cast,  some  of 
whom  are  now  in  leading  positions  in  the  greatest 
theatres.  The  repertoire,  for  a  town  of  100,000  peo- 
ple, is  extraordinary.  The  German  classics,  Goethe 
and  Schiller,  alternate  with  Shakespeare;  the  modem 
poetic  dramas,  the  plays  of  Hebbel,  Grillpartzer,  the 
sparkling  comedies  of  Schnitzler  are  interchanged 
with  translations  of  Ibsen,  Bernard  Shaw,  Pinero,  etc. 
Sudermann  and  Hauptmann  may  follow  the  latest 
French  salon  comedy,  or  a  new  farce;  and  the  good 
old  ones  that  everybody  knows  like  "Kyritz  Pyritz," 
and  "Charley's  Aunt"  are  not  allowed  to  die.  Then 
there  are  peasant  plays  in  dialect  and  fairy  plays  for 
the  children  at  Christmas. 


—163- 


CHAPTER  XV 

SALARIES   AND   A   TENOr's    GENIUS 

IF  you  make  a  hit  with  the  audience  your  residence 
in  the  town  is  made  very  pleasant.  Even  the 
conductors  and  motormen  of  the  street  cars  used 
to  greet  me  as  they  passed  and  all  the  policemen  were 
my  friends.  I  had  letters  to  some  of  the  people  in 
the  town  through  relations,  and  took  as  much  part  as 
I  had  time  for  in  the  really  charming,  if  slightly  nar- 
row, social  life  of  the  place.  The  centre  of  every- 
thing was,  of  course,  the  Court.  The  Grand  Duke 
took  a  great  interest  in  the  theatre,  and  used  to  watch 
the  productions  notebook  in  hand.  Any  detail  which 
did  not  please  him  was  immediately  noted  and  sent 
then  and  there  to  the  stage  manager  to  be  changed. 
We  had  some  special  privileges  as  we  were  classed  as 
Beamten  or  official  servants  of  the  government.  One 
was  the  right  to  wine  from  the  ducal  cellars  at  cost 
price,  or  duty  free.  Another  was  a  10  per  cent,  dis- 
count at  all  the  shops. 

Extra  money  is  often  to  be  picked  up  by  a  Gastspiel 
aushilfsweise,   that   is,   an   emergency   call   from  a 
—164— 


SALARIES  AND  A  TENOR'S  GENIUS 

neighbouring  theatre.  Our  opera  soubrette  once  re- 
ceived a  hurry  call  to  another  Hofoper  one  hour's 
journey  away.  The  train  would  have  made  her  too 
late,  so  she  took  an  automobile  and  her  costume  with 
her,  and  drove  at  breakneck  speed  through  the  woods 
to  the  town.  She  was  to  sing  Cherubino  in  "Figaro" 
and,  as  she  dressed  in  the  auto  to  save  time,  the  sur- 
prise of  the  chauffeur  may  be  imagined  when,  instead 
of  a  brunette  girl,  a  blond  boy  emerged  from  his 
car! 

I  made  my  first  appearance  as  a  regular  member  of 
the  company  as  Dalila.  The  only  comment  afterwards 
of  tlie  first  Kapellmeister,  who  directed  the  perform- 
ance, was,  "Why  did  you  make  the  eighth  note  in 
such  and  such  a  phrase  a  sixteenth?"  I  repeat  this, 
in  order  to  give  an  idea  of  the  standard  of  thorough- 
ness with  which  the  musical  part  of  the  opera  was 
prepared.  When  we  were  rehearsing  Dalila  on  the 
stage,  I,  having  studied  the  role  in  Paris  and  being  im- 
bued with  the  spirit  of  the  French  performers,  occa- 
sionally gave  that  swing  from  the  hips  on  a  particu- 
larly luscious  phrase,  using  as  faithfully  as  I  could 
remember  it  de  Reszke's  masterly  interpretation  and 
flow  of  line.  The  Hofrat  rapped  on  his  desk,  and 
half  patronizingly,  half  contemptuously,  with  a  pity- 
ing smile,  bade  me  not  indulge  in  franzoesische  Man- 
niere — French  mannerisms.  As  many  room  rehears- 
—165— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

als  were  held  as  were  necessary  before  the  singers 
could  sing  their  parts,  giving  every  note  its  exact 
value.  A  singer  might  make  mistakes  during  the  per- 
formance, but  the  Hofrat  always  mentioned  it  after- 
wards. My  Samson  was,  of  course,  the  Heldentenor, 
and  he  was  a  character;  a  tall,  good-looking  man,  with 
an  immense,  ill-used  voice,  but  a  wonderful  actor. 
He  had  a  great  success  with  the  ladies,  and  his  adven- 
tures, matrimonial  and  otherwise,  were  the  principal 
source  of  gossip  of  the  town.  His  lady-love  at  this 
time  was  a  certain  Baroness,  whom  he  afterwards 
married.  Their  great  amusement  was  rushing  about 
the  country  together  in  a  white  automobile  filled  with 
flowers.  She  used  to  hang  fascinated  over  the  edge 
of  her  box,  high  above  the  stage,  watching  his  every 
look  and  gesture,  her  large  bust  on  the  edge  of  the 
box.  When  he  left  the  stage  she  would  sink  back 
in  her  chair,  really  exhausted,  and  rub  her  eyes  with 
her  hand.  He  was  the  only  person  who  was  allowed 
to  disturb  the  orderly  rehearsals.  Every  one  was 
afraid  of  him  when  he  lost  his  temper  and  raged  up 
and  down  the  stage,  shouting  what  he  would  do  to  his 
enemy  when  he  caught  him.  One  day,  I  remember, 
he  was  furious  with  the  Intendant  because  birthday 
honours  had  been  distributed  by  the  Grand  Duke,  in 
the  form  of  decorations,  and  he  had  received  none. 
He  made  sure  that  it  was  the  Intendant' s  spite  against 
—166— 


SALARIES  AND  A  TENOR^S  GENIUS 

him,  but  it  was  in  reality,  of  course,  his  notorious  way 
of  living  that  prevented  his  being  decorated.  He 
shouted  that  he  would  "buy  himself  two  cents'  worth 
of  soft  soap  and  grease  his  back  with  it  and  make  the 
Intendant  climb  up  it!"  Then  that  he  would  get  him 
in  the  woods  and  run  his  auto  over  him,  and  run  it 
back  and  fortli,  and  back  and  forth,  until  there  was 
nothing  left  but  apple  sauce!  Finally  the  Direc- 
tion could  stand  him  no  longer,  great  actor  as  he  was, 
and  his  contract  was  broken  on  the  pretext  of  his  hav- 
ing been  absent  from  the  town  without  leave.  You 
are  supposed  not  to  go  further  than  a  certain  stated 
distance  from  the  theatre  without  due  notification  and 
permission.  He  left  the  place  with  his  Baroness,  and 
his  return  to  it  was  characteristic.  The  first  time  that 
Zeppelin's  airship  passed  over  the  town,  he  was  in  it, 
hanging  out  of  the  car,  shouting  and  throwing  down 
postcards ! 

As  Siegfried  in  "Goetterdaemmerung,"  he  left  an 
ineffaceable  impression  on  me.  I  have  never  seen  it 
equalled  by  any  tenor.  When  he  gazes  at  Brilnn- 
hilde's  ring,  and  his  memory  fails  to  recall  just  what 
it  means  to  him,  his  puzzled  look  of  baffled  memory, 
the  ray  of  understanding  that  almost  pierced  his  for- 
getfulness,  all  were  suggested  in  so  tremendous  a  way 
that  one  saw  inside  his  brain, — and  all  this  utterly 
without  exaggerated  mannerisms. 
—167— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

I  seemed  to  find  favour  in  his  sight,  and  during  the 
Dalila  rehearsals  he  made  hot  love  to  me.  In  the 
performance,  when  Dalila  sinks  into  his  arms  on  the 
couch,  he  nearly  upset  me  by  saying  fervently  out 
loud;  '"Ach!  endlich  weiss  man  was  esf  ist  ein 
schoenes  Weib  im  Arm  zu  haben!"  ("Ah!  at  last  one 
knows  what  it  is  to  have  a  beautiful  woman  in  one's 
arms.")  I  considered  this  a  distinct  reflection  on  his 
adoring  Baroness,  and  withheld  the  signs  of  delight 
he  no  doubt  expected.  He  told  me  once,  one  only 
wish  he  had, — ^just  to  see  my  Spinne,  or  tin- 
gene  closet.  One  day,  as  we  were  all  in  the 
greenroom,    during   a    rehearsal,    waiting   our   turn 

to  be  called  to  the  stage,  I  saw  S 's  eyes  transfixed 

with  horror.     Looking  in  the  direction  he  pointed  I 

saw  the  opera  soubrette  Z ,  putting  on  her  rubbers 

and  crossing  her  legs  in  doing  so.  This  action  re- 
vealed to  our  delighted  gaze  trouserettes  of  red  striped 
canton  flannel,  shirred  into  a  band  half  way  between 
calf  and  ankle,  and  there  adorned  with  a  blanket- 
stitched  frill  of  the  same  material.     S was  too 

sickened  by  the  sight  to  do  more  than  helplessly  gasp, 
"Typical!"  to  me.  A  curious  person;  fastidious,  sen- 
sual, unquestionably  endowed  with  genius,  he  just 
couldn't  behave. 

He  was  asked  to  sing  Siegfried  once,  at  a  neigh- 
bouring opera  house,  on  very  short  notice.  He  had 
—168— 


SALARIES  AND  A  TENOR'S  GENIUS 


to  dress  in  the  train  in  order  to  be  there  on  time  when 
the  curtain  went  up.  Fellow  travellers,  who  saw  him 
enter  the  train  dressed  in  the  ordinary  way,  were 
rather  horrified  to  see  a  half-naked  savage  emerge 

at  the  journey's  end;  but  S was  quite  impervious 

to  the  sensation  he  created.  He  never  wore  the  hid- 
eous tights  most  Siegfrieds  try  to  make  you  think  are 
skin,  but  his  splendid  shoulders  rose  naked  from  his 
bearskin,  and  his  bare  legs  were  bound  with  furry 
thongs. 

The  Heldenbariton  was  of  another  type.  He  had 
been  twenty-five  years  on  the  stage,  and  twenty  in  this 
theatre.  Opera  singing  for  him  was  like  going  to 
his  office.  He  had  his  house  with  a  charming  garden, 
his  family,  and  a  circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances, 
•which  included  nearly  the  whole  population.  There 
are  many  cases  like  his  in  this  class  of  theatre,  and  a 
pleasant  life  they  lead.  After  eight  years  in  the  same 
Hoftheater  they  are  eligible  for  a  pension,  a  certain 
proportion  of  their  salary,  which  increases  with  their 
years  of  service,  up  to  a  fixed  point.  Only  certain 
Ho f theaters  have  this  pension  fund;  it  is  very  nice  for 
some  singers,  but  a  great  hardship  for  others.  If  you 
leave  that  theatre  before  your  eight  years  are  up,  you 
lose  all  that  you  have  paid  during  your  engagement. 
Contribution  to  the  pension  fund  is  compulsory  for  all 
singers  and  actors  in  that  theatre.  One  singer  whom 
—169— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

I  knew  had  spent  sixteen  years  in  different  tlieatres, 
always  paying  a  pension  tax,  and  never  receiving  the 
benefit  of  one  penny  from  the  money,  as  her  engage- 
ment in  each  place  came  to  an  end  before  the  stipu- 
lated eight  years.  Unscrupulous  directors  take  ad- 
vantage of  this  to  fail  to  renew  a  singer's  contract 
when  it  gets  near  the  eighth  year.  The  invaluable 
Genossenschaft  is  also  trying  to  remedy  this  abuse. 

Some  of  the  regular  members  of  a  Hoftheater  have 
enviable  concert  reputations  as  well,  though  in  Ger- 
many the  two  professions  are  quite  separate,  and 
concert  singing  is  generally  looked  upon  as  the  higher 
branch  of  art.  The  critics  are  suspicious  of  the  opera 
singer  in  concert,  to  such  an  extent  that  I  was  advised, 
at  my  first  Berlin  recital,  to  keep  my  real  standing  in 
the  profession  dark  and  present  myself  without  my 
title  of  Hofopernsdngerin.  I  suggested  to  my  agent 
that,  as  I  was  quite  unknown  in  Berlin,  it  might  be 
well  to  spend  a  little  money  in  extra  advertising. 
"Advertising?"  said  he,  "they  will  think  you  are  a 
soap!"  So  I  sang  unheralded  except  by  the  usual 
half -inch  in  the  daily  papers.  In  contrast  to  the  pub- 
licity campaigns  and  press-agents  of  this  country,  let 
me  give  another  instance  of  how  they  did  things  in 
Germany  before  the  war.  On  being  engaged  at  this 
Hoftheater,  I  thought  I  ought  to  let  the  public  know 
it.  I  wrote  my  agent,  Herr  Harder,  asking  him  to 
—170— 


SALARIES  AND  A  TENOR'S  GENIUS 

spend  1000  marks  ($250)  for  me  in  judicious  adver- 
tising of  my  engagement.  He  answered  that  there 
was  no  way  in  which  he  could  place  the  money  to  fur- 
ther my  interests,  and  returned  it!  The  first  contract 
which  was  offered  me  for  a  concert  tour  in  America, 
provided  for  $2,000  to  be  paid  down  for  advertising 
before  tlie  tour  began. 


—171— 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   ART  OF   MARIE   MUELLE 

ONE  factor  in  my  success  was  the  beautiful 
wardrobe  I  was  enabled  to  bave  through  the 
kindness  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank  S.  Jones. 
The  first  clotbes  I  ordered  from  Marie  Muelle  in 
Paris,  the  summer  before  I  went  to  Metz,  I  left  entirely 
to  her.  She  showed  me  designs  and  had  bolts  of  won- 
derful shimmering  silks  unrolled  for  my  inspection, 
and  brought  out  boxes  of  curious  embroideries,  which 
she  kept  for  her  special  friends.  The  Amneris  and 
Dalila  costumes  she  made  me  were  very  French  of 
that  period  of  the  Comique;  pale  pinks  and  greens  and 
everything  in  long  wigs.  I  wore  them  a  few  seasons, 
but  as  I  grew  more  in  knowledge  I  did  not  feel  at  all 
Egyptian  in  pink  crepe  de  Chine,  nor  Syrian  in  pale 
green.  My  brother  Cecil  and  I  love  the  Egyptian 
part  of  the  Louvre,  and  have  spent  hours  there  to- 
gether. We  found  a  fascinating  bronze  princess  of 
the  right  period,  which  we  proceeded  to  try  and  copy 
for  me  for  Amneris. 

We  were  staying  out  of  town  at  Givemy,  the  artist 
—172— 


DALILA  AS   I   USED   TO  DRESS   IT 


THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE 

colony  made  famous  by  Monet,  Macmonnies,  Frie- 
sieke,  the  A.  B.  Frost  family  and  many  artist  friends. 
I  had  a  big  studio  with  my  brother,  and  he  made 
huge  designs  of  the  wings  the  princess  used  for  her 
skirt,  pinning  them  on  the  wall  of  the  studio,  then 
colouring  them  in  the  tones  of  the  mummy  cases, 
allowing  for  their  fading  through  the  ages.  These 
designs  we  took  to  Muelle,  who  was  most  enthusiastic. 
We  worked  hard  and  long  on  that  costume,  getting  the 
headdress  just  right,  and  making  it  practical  as  well 
as  correct.  The  jewelry  I  made  myself,  from  wooden 
beads  painted  the  right  colour  and  in  the  rue  de  Rivoli 
I  found  just  the  right  Egyptian  charms  and  figures 
of  blue  earthenware  to  hang  on  the  necklace.  My 
wig  maker  could  not  seem  to  satisfy  me,  so  I  finally 
took  a  short-haired  black  wig,  and  braided  into  it 
one  hundred  strands,  made  of  lustreless  wool.  The 
dress  seemed  to  lack  something  when  on,  so  I  twisted 
ropes  of  turqouise  beads  round  the  wrists  and  the  blue 
accented  the  whole. 

The  Dalila  clothes  I  had  been  wearing  then  seemed 
hopelessly  pale,  washy  and  conventional,  so  we 
hunted  the  shops  of  Berlin  and  Paris  for  vivid  em- 
broideries and  searched  museums  for  Syrian  women. 
They  did  not  seem  at  all  popular,  though  we  found 
magnificent  reliefs  of  men.  Taking  these  as  a  basis, 
we  built  some  barbaric  robes  of  scarlet  and  purple, 
—173— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

added  a  fuzzy  short  black  wig,  and  I  felt  much  more 
"like  it."  I  found  a  necklace  of  silver  chains  with 
clumps  of  turquoise  matrix,  in  Darmstadt,  and  had  a 
headdress  made  to  match  it.  A  comparison  of  the 
Amneris  and  Dalila  photos  will  show  how  one's  sense 
of  costuming  develops. 

We  bought  all  the  books  on  the  subject  we  could 
find,  and  studied  them  for  hours.  We  cut  out  repro- 
ductions of  historic  portraits  and  invested  largely  in 
photos  in  the  different  art  galleries  we  haunted,  and 
pasted  them  into  scrap  books.  Caps  and  headdresses 
have  always  interested  me  intensely.  The  one  I  wear 
in  "Meistersinger"  I  copied  from  a  portrait  in  Ant- 
werp. The  Norwegian  one  I  wear  as  Mary  in  "Flie- 
gender  Hollaender"  I  bought  in  Norway,  together 
with  the  rest  of  my  costume. 

Nothing  gives  such  character  to  a  silhouette  as  a 
characteristic  head,  and  having  to  do  endless  old 
women,  I  could  give  them  all  just  as  endless  changes 
of  headgear.  A  comparison  of  the  photos  will  also 
show  how  one  grows  into  the  role  with  years  of  play- 
ing, and  how  one's  eyes  "come  to,"  how  one  develops 
histrionically — ^how  the  silhouette  acquires  snap  and 
vim  and  carrying  power  at  a  distance,  and  outlines 
become  crisp  and  authoritative. 

My  first  Carmen  clothes  were  very  Opera  Comique 
and  not  at  all  Spanish  gipsy.  I  studied  the  Spanish 
—174— 


THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE 

cigarette  girls  and  those  of  gipsy  blood  as  carefully 
as  possible,  and  my  idea  of  the  role  changed  natur- 
ally. I  went  to  Muelle  one  summer,  and  told  her  that 
I  was  no  longer  happy  in  satin  princess  dresses.  She 
said  tliat  Zuloaga  had  just  designed  and  superintended 
the  making  of  Breval's  clothes  for  the  Comique^s  real 
Spanish  revival  of  Carmen.  She  could  duplicate 
these  for  me  as  she  knew  just  where  to  send  in  Spain 
for  the  flowered  cottons  in  garish  colours,  and  the  shot 
silk  scarfs  that  Zuloaga  had  imported  for  Breval.  I 
was  delighted  at  this  and  adapted  the  costumes  to  my 
needs,  using  the  last  one  exactly  as  Zuloaga  had  in- 
tended, witli  the  huge  red  comb,  made  specially  in 
Spain. 

When  I  sang  Carmen  before  Prince  Henry  of  Prus- 
sia in  Darmstadt,  he  sent  word  to  me  that  my  skirts 
were  too  long,  no  Spanish  woman  wore  them  so  long. 
I  knew,  however,  that  they  were  the  right  length,  and 
any  one  can  see  by  studying  Zuloaga's  paintings  that 
the  soubrette  length  skirt  is  not  worn  on  the  proud, 
swinging  hips  of  the  Spanish  girl.  I  have  been  told 
by  Spaniards  that  I  am  an  exact  reproduction  of  a 
Spanish  gipsy  as  Carmen,  which  shows  my  studies 
were  not  in  vain.  People  have  said  that  Merimee's 
and  Bizet's  Carmen  is  not  Spanish,  and  perhaps  they 
are  right;  but  in  aiming  to  portray  a  Spaniard,  what 
model  can  one  take  but  a  real  one? 
—175^ 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPEIL\  SINGER 

My  Orfeo  clothes  I  have  never  changed.  The  crepe 
de  chine  for  them  was  imported  by  Mounet- Sully  for 
one  of  his  characters,  and  Muelle  gave  me  the  piece 
that  was  left  over.  Its  beautiful  creamy  colour  and 
thick  softness  cannot  be  improved  upon,  to  my  mind. 

Marie  Muelle  is  now  the  first  operatic  costumer 
of  the  world.  This  reputation  she  has  built  unaided 
through  her  own  unfailing  energy.  Through  her 
rooms  pass  the  most  fabulous-priced  opera  singers, 
the  greatest  actors,  the  stage  beauties,  famous  man- 
agers, producers,  and  designers,  the  ladies  of  the  great 
world  seeking  costumes  for  wonderful  private  fetes 
— and  gentlemen  seeking  the  ladies — all  the  varied 
crowd  of  many  nationalities  to  whom  the  old  childish 
pastime  of  "dressing  up"  is  a  business  or  a  pleasure. 

The  present  establishment  in  the  rue  de  la  Victoire 
is  quite  impressive.  The  hall  is  usually  half -filled 
with  the  trunks  of  "Muelle  artists"  engaged  in  Amer- 
ica, who  bring  their  things  into  New  York  in  bond  to 
avoid  paying  the  ruinous  customs  charges,  and  are 
therefore  forced  to  go  through  the  weary  round  of 
dispatching  the  same  old  stage  wardrobe  out  of  the 
country  and  bringing  it  back  again  every  season. 
Even  when  the  clothes  are  quite  reduced  to  shreds  and 
patches  the  rags  have  to  be  elaborately  packed,  iden- 
tified by  lynx-eyed  officials,  and  sent  at  least  outside 
—176— 


THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE 

the  three-mile  limit  of  the  American  Continent  to  be 
thrown  away! 

The  first  big  white  reception  room  of  the  Maison 
contains  a  long  table  usually  littered  with  samples, 
some  chairs,  and  a  large  mirror  lit  like  that  of  a 
star's  dressing  room.  There  is  a  mantelpiece  cov- 
ered with  photographs  of  singers  of  all  grades  of 
celebrity,  each  dedicated  with  a  message  of  admiring 
affection  to  Marie  Muelle.  Around  the  wall  are 
various  armoires,  one  containing  a  library  of  works 
on  costume,  another  a  glittering  collection  of  stage 
jewelry,  a  third  many  portfolios  of  water-colour  de- 
signs for  every  sort  and  kind  of  theatrical  garment  for 
every  role. 

Oh!  those  designs!  A  young  soprano  has  won 
an  engagement  in  Monte  Carlo  and  wants  a  stage  ward- 
robe for  her  repertoire.  Out  comes  the  "Modern 
French"  portfolio  with  a  bewildering  series  of  blonde 
and  sinuous  Thaises,  Moyen-Age  Melisandes,  a  scin- 
tillating Ariane  in  contrast  to  a  demure  little  work-a- 
day  Louise;  and  the  lady  spends  a  delightful  after- 
noon in  selecting  her  favourites. 

Then  Muelle  sends  for  an  armful  of  samples — 

"Crepe  de  chine,  of  course,  for  the  Thais.     Yes,  in 
flesh  pink  with  plenty  of  embroidery.     Here  is  an 
echantillon" — and  she  pins  it  to  the  drawing. 
—177— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

The  singer  picks  out  a  scrap  of  heavy,  lustrous 
crepe — 

"No,  not  that  quality.  That  is  something  special, 
and  there  is  no  more  to  be  had  for  love  or  money." 

Colours  and  fabrics  are  decided  upon,  all  tested  for 
becomingness  under  the  bunched  electric  lights,  which 
mimic  the  strong  light  of  the  stage.  Each  design  has 
an  assortment  of  tags  of  material  pinned  where  many 
others  have  been  pinned  before.  Muelle  is  an  expert 
in  colours  for  the  stage.  She  doesn't  talk  learnedly 
of  synthetic  dyes,  processes,  or  German  competition, 
but  she  can  give  you  a  bright  blue  that  is  warranted  to 
stay  blue,  no  matter  what  vagaries  of  lighting  a  stage 
manager  may  indulge  in. 

Her  pale  colours  never  turn  insipid,  nor  her  dark 
ones  muddy.  She  keeps  a  special  dyeing  establish- 
ment busy  with  her  orders  alone,  and  twenty-four 
hours  seems  time  enough  to  obtain  any  shade  known 
to  the  palette. 

The  textiles  once  chosen,  Camille  is  called  to  "take 
measures"  and  arrange  for  the  fittings. 

"And  now,  one  question,"  says  Mademoiselle,  "Is 
your  stage  level,  or  does  it  slope  towards  the  back? 
Very  well,  that  is  all." 

When  the  singer  arrives  for  her  first  trying-on,  the 
fitting  room  is  filled  with  lengths  of  material,  and 
Mademoiselle  herself  stands  in  the  midst,  brandish- 
—178— 


THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE 

ing  a  huge  pair  of  shears.  She  throws  a  length  of 
silk  over  one  of  your  shoulders,  puts  in  two  pins,  and 
bunching  the  material  in  her  left  hand,  gives  a  slash 
with  the  scissors  in  her  right,  with  a  recklessness  that 
makes  you  shudder.  A  pull  here,  a  fold  there,  two 
more  pins — and  the  stuff  hangs  as  almost  no  one  else 
can  make  it  hang,  accentuating  a  good  figure  and  dis- 
guising a  poor  one. 

Occasionally  in  filling  a  regular  order  she  will 
stumble  upon  an  unusual  effect.  One  day  they  were 
making  MoyenAge  sleeves  for  the  dress  of  a  well- 
known  singer  whom  Mile.  Muelle  has  gowned  for 
years,  but  who  has  never  been  included  in  the  list  of 
her  special  favourites.  The  sleeve  was  of  slashed 
silvery  grey,  lined  with  cerise,  the  lining  showing  on 
the  edges.  She  picked  up  a  bit  of  cloth  of  silver  and 
pulled  it  through  the  slashes.  The  effect  charmed 
her. 

'^Tenez!"  she  said,  "That  is  too  good  for  her. 
We'll  keep  that  for  La  Belle  Geraldine." 

"La  Belle  Geraldine,"  as  Miss  Farrar  is  known  in 
Paris,  is  one  of  Muelle's  most  constant  patrons. 
Ever  since  her  Berlin  days  she  has  been  costumed  by 
the  Maison  Muelle,  and  she  stands  very  high  in  the 
list  of  Mademoiselle's  favourites. 

The  outer  room  may  contain  the  photographs  of 
celebrities  great  and  small,  but  in  the  inner  room  there 
—179— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

are  just  two — a  portrait  of  Miss  Farrar  as  Elizabeth 
and  one  of  myself  as  Carmen. 

Opening  off  the  main  reception  and  fitting  rooms 
are  others  lined  with  armoires  and  stacks  of  boxes 
running  to  the  ceiling.  Then  come  the  rooms  for  cut- 
ting and  sewing,  and  the  embroidery  rooms.  Muelle 
uses  quantities  of  solid  embroidery  and  applique 
work,  where  other  costumers  are  content  with  stencil- 
ing and  gilding.  She  has  the  secret  of  a  metal  thread 
that  does  not  tarnish.  Her  idea  is  that  the  use  of 
first-class  materials,  good  silks  and  satins,  real  velvets 
is  a  necessity  in  these  days  of  electric  lighting,  which 
is  as  revealing  as  sunlight;  that  the  substitution  of 
imitation  fabrics  went  out  with  the  use  of  gas  in  the 
theatre,  and  that  tlie  superior  wearing  qualities  alone 
of  the  best  materials  justify  the  greater  expense. 

The  capacity  of  her  armoires  and  the  size  of  the 
accumulated  collections  they  contain  were  tested  some 
years  ago  by  the  special  production  of  Strauss's 
"Salome"  at  the  Chatelet  Theatre  in  Paris,  when 
Muelle  was  called  upon,  at  ridiculously  short  notice, 
to  furnish  all  costumes  for  a  cast  of  150  people. 
There  was  a  royal  ransacking  of  cupboards  and  jewel 
cabinets,  but  everything  was  ready  on  time  for  the 
dress  rehearsal. 

A  greater  feather  in  her  cap  was  the  order  to  cos- 
tume the  new  productions  of  the  Russian  Ballet,  from 
—180— 


DALILA   AS    I    NOW    DRESS    IT 


THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE 

designs  by  no  less  a  personage  than  the  great  Leon 
Bakst  himself.  Then  ensued  a  dyeing  of  silks  and  a 
printing  of  chiffons,  a  stringing  of  breads  and  knot- 
ting of  fringes  which  set  the  whole  establishment  hum- 
ming like  a  beehive. 

For  all  their  thousand  problems,  the  costumes  were 
finished  and  delivered  at  the  appointed  time. 

Since  that  triumph  there  has  been  hardly  an  im- 
portant costume  event  in  all  Paris  in  which  Muelle  has 
not  had  a  share,  if  not  entire  charge.  She  costumed 
Astruc's  first  season  in  the  Theatre  des  Champs 
Elysees.  She  has  been  responsible  for  the  costuming 
of  many  productions  of  the  Russian  Ballet,  and  for 
great  spectacles  like  Debussy's  "St.  Sebastien"  and 
"La  Pisanelle"  of  D'Annunzio.  Society  knows  her 
as  well  as  the  stage,  for  she  has  been  the  presiding 
genius  at  many  an  exquisite  fete,  Greek,  Roman,  or 
Persian,  held  in  lovely  gardens  behind  the  prosaic 
exteriors  of  exclusive  Parisian  homes. 

But  all  this  has  not  turned  her  head,  nor  changed 
her  toward  her  old  friends.  She  still  loves  a  good 
gossip.  Many  a  note  have  we  had  from  her — "I  am 
delighted  that  Mademoiselle  is  returning  to  Paris, 
and  hope  that  she  will  come  to  see  me.  I  have  quanti- 
ties of  stories  to  tell  her,  and  we  shall  die  of  laugh- 
ing." 

But  though  she  enjoys  a  choice  tidbit,  she  will  tol- 
—181— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

erate  no  malicious  tale-bearing.  She  refused  an 
order,  tactfully  and  firmly,  from  one  singer  because 
the  lady  tried  to  tell  tales  out  of  school  against  one 
of  Muelle's  chosen  favourites.  Her  revenge  in  this 
case  was  typical.  She  knows  that  advancing  age 
is  the  enemy  par  excellence  of  popularity  for  stage 
people,  so  she  makes  a  point  of  always  referring  to 
the  delinquent  as  "La  Mere  So-and-So!" 

The  list  of  her  kindnesses  to  artists  is  unending. 
One  case  that  I  now  of  personally  is  typical.  A  girl 
with  an  unusually  beautiful  voice  had  arranged  a 
debut,  leading  to  a  first  engagement,  and  she  ordered 
her  wardrobe  from  Muelle.  She  failed  to  be  engaged 
after  her  debut,  however,  and  one  disappointment 
after  another  came  to  her,  so  that  it  seemed  impossible 
for  her  to  make  a  start  at  all.  But  Muelle  had  faith 
in  her,  and  kept  the  beautiful  clothes,  unpaid  for, 
hanging  in  her  presses  for  several  years.  At  last 
the  girl  made  a  great  hit  in  Russia,  and  is  now  a  well- 
known  singer,  and,  needless  to  say,  a  faithful  adherent 
of  the  Maison  Muelle.  This  is  only  one  instance  of 
the  kind,  and,  of  course,  tjiere  are  many,  many  more 
in  which  Mademoiselle's  kindness  does  not  find  a 
monetary  reward. 

Often  have  I  heard  her  suggesting  economy  to  those 
whose  salaries  are  not  in  the  "fabulous"  class.  She 
will  show  a  girl  how  to  costume  two  roles,  with  the 
—182— 


THE  ART  OF  MARIE  MUELLE 

same  dresses,  by  combinations  and  changes  so  cleverly- 
thought  out  that  the  keenest  public  won't  detect  them. 
Elizabeth  and  Elsa  may  wear  the  same  mantle,  right 
side  out  in  one  role  and  wrong  side  out  in  the  other. 
An  extra  tabard  of  brocade  or  embroidery  will  allow 
an  Ophelia  to  wear  the  gowns  of  Marguerite — all 
tricks  of  the  trade,  and  well  understood  in  the  Maison 
Muelle. 

Brilliantly  clever,  immensely  capable,  good- 
natured,  and  big-hearted,  a  splendid  organizer  and 
the  faithfulest  of  friends,  Marie  Muelle  has  earned 
by  the  hardest  of  hard  work,  and  now  justly  enjoys 
her  title  of  "First  Theatrical  Costumer,"  not  only  of 
Paris,  but  of  the  world. 


—183— 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   NON-MILITARY   SIDE    OF   A   GERMAN   OFFICER'S 

LIFE 

ONE  of  the  first  things  you  do  on  arriving  at  a 
new  residence  in  Germany  is  to  acquaint  the 
police  of  your  presence.  This  is  called  An- 
meldung.  It  is  a  fearsome  experience  and  admits  of 
no  trifling.  You  go  to  the  appointed  stuffy  office,  and 
tell  your  nationality,  birthplace  witli  date  of  birth, 
your  parents'  names,  their  profession  if  any,  and  your 
own,  their  birthplaces  and  ages,  if  they  are  dead  and 
what  they  died  of,  whether  you  are  married  or  single, 
number,  names  and  ages  of  your  children,  and  any 
little  extra  detail  that  may  occur  to  the  official  in 
Prussian  blue  who  holds  the  inquisition.  If  you 
have  an  unusual  name,  he  won't  believe  you  when 
you  claim  it.  A  girl  I  knew  was  christened  Jean,  but 
she  is  down  in  the  police  records  of  Berlin  as  Johanna, 
because  her  policeman  said  that  Jean  was  a  man's 
name,  and  French  at  that! 

Every  servant  maid  has  a  book,  which  must  be 
signed  by  the  police  when  you  engage  her,  and  when 
—184— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S  LIFE 

she  leaves  you,  before  she  may  take  another  place. 
When  you  engage  her  she  must  be  angemeldet  too,  in 
order  that  she  may  be  charged  with  her  proper  insur- 
ance tax.  This  amounts  to  about  five  dollars  a  year; 
the  employer  pays  one-half,  tlie  servant  the  other. 
Many  employers  pay  it  all.  This  entitles  the  servant 
to  treatment  at  the  dispensary  or  in  the  hospital  if  she 
is  ill.  The  police  are  very  careful  of  her  comfort, 
and  pay  a  visit  to  the  house  in  which  she  is  employed 
to  see  that  her  room  is  big  enough,  airy  enough, 
warmed  in  winter,  and  that  her  bed  is  comfortable! 
She  has  a  long  list  of  "rights"  including  so  many 
loaves  of  black  bread  and  so  many  bottles  of  beer  per 
week ;  and  she  dare  not  be  offended  if  you  keep  every- 
thing under  lock  and  key. 

You  have  not  yet  finished  your  Anmeldung  if  you 
keep  a  dog,  for  he  must  be  registered,  too,  and  you 
pay  highly  for  the  luxury.  The  Polizei  decides  when 
you  may  and  may  not  play  on  your  piano  or  sing. 
Before  nine  in  the  morning,  after  nine  at  night,  all 
musical  instruments  are  taboo.  The  sacred  sleeping 
hour  after  dinner,  from  two  to  four,  must  also  be  ob- 
served in  silence  in  Berlin.  Nothing  dare  interfere 
with  the  after-dinner  nap;  even  the  banks  are  closed 
from  one  to  two,  or  even  three.  You  write  to  the 
Polizei  in  Germany  where  the  Englishman  writes  to 
the  Times,  I  remember  a  perfect  avalanche  of 
—185— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

anonymous  cards  in  Darmstadt  because  a  child  in  our 
house  would  practise  with  her  windows  open  and 
neighbours  thought  it  was  the  Hofopernsaengerin 
Howard. 

The  intricacies  of  paying  your  taxes  take  some 
study.  Foreigners  must  pay  taxes  on  money  earned  in 
the  country ;  town  and  county  taxes  are  payable  every 
three  months,  on  alternate  months,  in  two  different 
parts  of  the  town.  You  arrive  at  the  Staedtische 
Halle  to  pay  your  town  taxes,  and  you  are  very  lucky 
if,  after  picking  out  the  right  month,  you  succeed  in 
hitting  the  day  when  the  place  is  open.  A  small  sign 
on  the  locked  door  may  greet  you:  "Closed  on  the 
ninth  and  fifteenth  of  every  month."  If  day  and 
month  are  right,  you  may  easily  strike  the  wrong  hour, 
for  town  taxes  are  payable,  say,  from  eight  to  ten 
A.  M.,  and  two  to  five  P.  M.,  while  county  ones  are  from 
nine  to  twelve,  and  four  to  seven.  There  are  church 
taxes  besides,  very  small  if  you  are  Catholic  and 
larger  if  you  are  Evangelical.  I  succeeded  in  get- 
ting out  of  these  by  declaring  myself  neither.  Unfor- 
tunately I  did  not  know  tlie  word  for  undenom- 
inational and  so  had  to  say  that  we  were  "heathen." 
My  sister  was  asked  in  a  rasping  official  voice,  filled 
with  the  large  contempt  for  women  which  a  certain 
type  of  German  official  always  reeks  with,  ''Sind  Sie 
ledig?!'  She,  poor  dear,  had  never  heard  "ledig" 
—186— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S  LIFE 

before,  and  stammered  ^'Was?'^  The  question  was 
rapped  out  again,  and  she  said,  ''Ich — weiss  nicht." 
When  she  got  home  and  looked  up  ledig,  she  found 
the  man  had  been  asking  if  she  were  married  or 
single.     What  he  made  of  her  answer  we  never  knew. 

All  these  little  things  are  very  amusing  in  Germany. 
The  way  everything  seems  verboten,  at  first  is  annoy- 
ing, but  later  amusing.  The  paths  in  the  Tiergarten 
in  Berlin  always  used  to  tempt  me  to  be  bad.  I  al- 
ways wanted  to  walk  on  the  path  reserved  for  bicy- 
clists, or  horses,  or  sit  on  the  benches  reserved  for 
children  only.  The  letter  boxes  say  to  you,  "'Auf- 
schrift  und  Marke  nicht  vergessen!"  ("Address  and 
stamp  not  to  be  forgotten ! " )  The  door  mat  shrieks  at 
you,  "Bitte,  Fuesse  Reinigenr  ("Please  wipe  your 
feet.")  Towels,  brushes,  etc.,  all  say  "Bitte'  at  you. 
I  believe  one  could  travel  all  through  Germany  with 
just  "Bitte/'  and  get  an  insight  into  the  different 
phases  of  German  character  through  the  intonations 
of  this  word. 

A  rather  annoying  custom  in  Darmstadt  was  the 
way  the  bakers  over-celebrated  every  holiday.  They 
had  usually  the  "Erster,  Zweiter,  und  Dritter  Feier- 
tag" — first,  second  and  third  holiday,  and  they  toiled 
not  on  those  three  days.  All  the  bread  you  could  get, 
if  you  had  neglected  to  provide  enough,  was  square 
pretzels,  baked  exceptionally  large  and  hard.  This 
—187— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


may  have  been  a  Darmstadt  custom  only,  as  they  vary 
so  all  over  Germany,  that  what  holds  good  in  the  north 
may  be  quite  unknown  in  the  south.  For  instance, 
cream  is  Sahne  in  Berlin,  Rahm  in  Darmstadt,  and  has 
even  a  third  name  in  other  parts  of  Germany,  which  I 
have  forgotten.  You  can  get  a  wonderful  Sandtorte 
— a  firm,  delicious  cake,  in  Berlin,  but  I  never  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  it  just  right  in  Southern  or  Middle 
Germany. 

A  quaint  old  custom  in  Darmstadt  was  always  ob- 
served on  the  first  Sunday  in  Advent.  The  Grand 
Duke  always  did  his  shopping  for  Christmas  on  that 
day,  and  the  country  people  thronged  into  the  town. 
A  band  used  to  play  before  the  shop  in  which  the 
Grand  Duke  was,  and  move  as  he  moved.  We  gave 
an  extra  long  performance  at  the  opera,  "Goetterdaem- 
merung,"  or  some  such  serious  business,  but  the 
Grand  Duke  never  could  honour  us  with  his  presence, 
as  every  one  in  town  would  have  felt  cheated  if  he 
had. 

The  shopping  in  Darmstadt  was  really  quite  re- 
markable. We  always  thought  it  an  excellent  thing 
that  after  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  not  a  scrap 
of  meat  was  visible  in  the  white-tiled  butcher  shops, 
everything  being  put  away  on  ice. 

Food  is  taken  very  seriously,  of  course,  and  as- 
paragus is  honoured  above  any  other  vegetable  by 
—188— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S  LIFE 

having  its  own  subscription  season.  That  is,  you 
subscribe  at  the  beginning  of  the  season,  so  much  a 
day,  and  asparagus  is  delivered  to  you  daily  while  it 
lasts  at  that  price,  the  sum  not  varying  with  the  fluc- 
tuations of  the  market. 

The  old  market  place  was  a  delight  on  full  market 
days.  The  grumpy  old  women  would  sit  in  the  mid- 
dle of  their  piles  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  while 
you  threaded  your  way  along  the  uneven  cobble- 
stone lanes  they  had  left  in  between  their  stalls. 
Brilliant  awning  umbrellas  have  been  adopted  and 
glow  in  the  sun,  against  the  darkly  moist,  old  walls  of 
the  frowning  castle  just  behind.  The  old  Dames  call 
out  to  you,  "Well,  Madamsche',  nothing  from  me  to- 
day? Aren't  my  things  good  enough  for  you?" 
"Madamsche'  "  is  a  left-over  from  ancient  French 
times,  and  the  final  "n"  is  left  off,  as  are  all  "n's"  in 
Hessen  dialect. 

This  dialect  also  lacks  "r's."  They  tell  a  tale  of 
the  Railroad  conductors  calling  out  "Station 
Daaaaamstadt!"  so  loudly  and  persistently  as  to  an- 
noy Grand  Ducal  ears,  and  they  were  ordered  to  pay 
more  attention  to  their  "'r's."  Now  they  call  out  in 
a  superior  tone  "Starrrrr-rtion — Damstadt!"  and  feel 
sure  every  one  is  satisfied. 

We  had  exceptional  opportunities  of  knowing  Ger- 
mans of  all  classes,  from  the  cleaning  women  in  the 
—189— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

theatre  to  royalty.  The  military  types  are  most 
varied,  ranging  from  the  Prussian  Junker  to  the 
gemuetlicher  Bayer,  with  his  easy  South  German  ways. 
We  met  many  officers  and  their  families,  both  in  Metz 
and  Darmstadt.  In  Metz,  during  the  last  year,  we 
grew  to  know  and  be  fond  of  a  young  Bavarian  lieu- 
tenant. With  him  we  drove  and  picnicked  in  the 
lovely  Metz  country.  It  was  early  spring,  and  we 
would  take  the  train  to  some  little  village  near  by,  and 
have  our  tea  in  the  woods  or  at  one  of  the  thousands 
of  Gasthduse  that  dot  Germany.  I  remember  one 
Sunday  afternoon  in  a  still,  steep-sided  ravine,  the 
walls  of  it  rising  sharply  on  either  side,  thickly 
wooded  with  giant  beeches;  the  sun-flecked  grass  a- 
quiver  with  myriads  of  white  ethereal  wind-flowers. 
A  shrine,  with  a  blue-robed  Virgin  looked  down  on  us, 
and  the  wood-hush  was  only  broken  by  the  songs  of 
birds,  twittering  and  gurgling  high  above  us  in  the 
branches.  Suddenly  far  off  the  sound  of  singing; 
and  slowly  a  procession  of  children  came  into  view, 
singing  in  well-harmonized  parts  as  they  walked. 
They  all  genuflected  before  the  Virgin  and  wound  off 
into  the  woods,  their  voices  dying  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

We  often  studied  the  old  battlefields,  so  fiercely 

contested  in  1870,  and  F would  point  out  to  us 

just  where  the  different  regiments  advanced  and  fell. 
—190— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER^S  LIFE 

A  long  way  off  seemed  the  horrors  of  war,  and  we 
never  dreamed  what  much  greater  horrors  were  soon 
to  descend  on  us. 

We  loved  the  Bavarians  with  their  kind  artistic 
souls  in  those  days,  and  yet  they  tell  me  they  were 
among  the  worst  in  the  early  days  in  Belgium. 

The  military  spirit  was  rampant  in  Metz,  of  course, 
and  we  got  to  know  that  side  of  it  well,  as  some  of 
the  officers  had  English  wives,  who  were  very  good  to 
us.  The  delightful  manners  of  the  officers  always 
charmed  us;  we  were  told  they  are  trained  to  social 
manners  by  their  superior  officers.  The  cavalry  regi- 
ments were  the  smartest  ones,  both  in  Metz  and 
Darmstadt,  the  Infantry  being  solidly  artistocratic,  but 
less  dashing.  The  Pioniere  (Engineers)  were  rather 
despised  socially,  while  the  poor  Train  or  Commis- 
sariat, was  utterly  looked  down  upon  and  hardly 
bowed  to.  The  Bavarian  infantry  has  its  special  so- 
cial standing,  because  the  old  nobility  is  largely  rep- 
resented in  it.  What  they  lack  in  riches  they  make 
up  in  pride.  All  the  other  German  infantry  regi- 
ments wear  dark  blue  trousers,  no  matter  what  colour 
their  tunics;  the  Bavarians,  however,  have  stuck  to 
their  light  blue  trousers,  in  spite  of  all  attempts  to 
change  them.  The  Prince  Regent  was  famous  for 
wearing  his  much  too  long,  and  very  wrinkled  over 
badly  fitting  boots.  The  smartest  officers  wore  the 
—191— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

Ballon  Muetze  (balloon  cap)  introduced  by  the  Crown 
Prince  and  ineffectually  forbidden  by  his  father.  It 
is  called  "balloon"  because  it  is  much  higher  than  the 
ones  worn  by  less  smart  officers.  The  height  of  the 
collar  is  the  other  important  thing.  In  a  sterling  offi- 
cer of  the  old  school,  it  is  low  and  comfy;  the  smarter 
you  are  the  higher  your  collar.  If  they  are  fat, 
the  two  or  three  creases  at  the  back  of  the  neck 
above  the  collar,  always  look  to  me  unmistakably — 
German. 

The  life  they  lead  is  in  general  very  simple,  accord- 
ing to  our  ideas.  Their  Casino  is  their  meeting  place 
in  the  evening,  like  an  officers'  club.  Some  of  them 
are  tremendously  hard  workers,  most  ambitious,  and 

showing  real  interest  in  their  men.     F used  to 

teach  his  more  illiterate  ones  to  read  and  write,  and 
many  were  the  stories  he  told  of  the  thick-headed 
Bavarian  peasants.  The  difference  in  these  men, 
when  we  saw  them  arriving  in  the  fall,  as  rookies,  and 
after  a  year's  training,  was  absolutely  amazing; 
slumped  shoulders  had  straightened,  lower  jaws  had 
decided  to  connect  with  upper  ones,  and  eyes  focused 
intelligently.  Each  officer  has  his  Bursch  or  private 
servant,  who  usually  chooses  to  be  one.  These  are 
treated  as  friends  by  their  masters,  if  the  latter  hap- 
pen to  be  non-Prussian  in  character.  I  said  once  to 
—192— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S  LIFE 

F ,  "Is  Karl  your  servant?"     "No,  he  is  mein 

Freundf"  he  said. 

An  officer  in  Diedenhofen  where  we  occasionally 
sang  while  I  was  with  the  Metz  opera,  used  to  send  me 
gorgeous  flowers.  He  had  a  way  of  sitting  near  the 
stage  and  applauding  by  flapping  his  handkerchief 
against  the  palm  of  his  white  kid  glove,  which  so  en- 
raged me  that  I  never  acknowledged  the  flowers. 
One  night,  an  ugly  old  contralto  took  my  part,  as  I 
was  laid  up,  and  that  was  the  night  the  officer  had 
selected  to  present  me  with  a  huge  basket  of  white 
azaleas  and  blue  satin  ribbon.  The  old  dame  re- 
warded the  house  in  general  with  a  false-teeth  smile 
on  receiving  them  over  the  footlights,  which  must  have 
discouraged  my  admirer  as  the  flowers  stopped  ab- 
ruptly. 

We  quite  often  saw  young  officers  very  drunk  on 
the  streets  in  Metz,  at  about  five  in  the  afternoon. 

Asking  F about  this,  we  were  told  that  it  was  only 

the  young  ones,  if  we  would  notice,  and  that  they 
were  obliged  to  empty  their  glasses,  when  toasted  by 
superior  officers  at  regimental  dinners.  If  these  gen- 
tlemen caught  their  eyes,  as  they  raised  their  glasses, 
many  times  during  the  two  o'clock  dinner,  the  silly 
young  fellows'  heads  naturally  grew  befuddled,  but 
it  was  not  etiquette  to  refuse  to  empty  their  glass. 
—193— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

This  custom  was  very  hard  on  a  Faehnrich  or  Ensign, 
and  was  later  done  away  with. 

The  smartest  officers  had  English  dogcarts,  and  were 
certainly  most  dashing.  Many  clever  ones  in  the 
cavalry  made  money  out  of  horses,  buying  and  selling 
them  amongst  themselves.  In  Darmstadt  they  intro- 
duced the  English  hunt,  and  wore  the  pink.  We 
used  to  go  up  to  Frankfort  for  the  "gentlemen  races," 
and  often  saw  our  own  Northern  cousins,  whose  names 
we  knew,  but  whom  we  never  had  the  opportunity  of 
meeting,  riding  with  great  skill  and  daring.  These 
races  were  much  encouraged  by  the  Kaiser,  and  some- 
times giant  Eitel-Fritz  would  come  and  look  on,  or 
the  dandy  Prince  Schaumberg-Lippe  would  make  his 
horse  mince  round  the  ring.  He  was  a  great  beau 
and  ladies'  favourite  and  the  horrible  accident  that 
has  deprived  him  of  his  beauty  in  the  battlefield, 
seems  an  impossible  thing  to  have  happened  to  just 
him. 

Our  friend  F was  known  in  his  regiment  as 

"Revolver  mouth."  This  title  he  earned  through  his 
witty  tongue  and  his  habit  of  hitting  the  bull's-eye  in 
his  table  conversation.  His  great  friend,  a  smart 
young  nouveau  riche,  in  the  most  exclusive  cavalry 
regiment,  who  had  much  more  money  tjian  brains,  was 

the  butt  of  much  goodnatured   chaff  from   F . 

One  evening  F recounted  to  a  group  of  brother 

—194— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S  LIFE 

officers  how  S ,  who  was  notorious  for  his  absent- 
mindedness  and  poor  memory,  was  seen  miles  away 

from  home,  galloping  down  a  dusty  road.     F 

hailed  him  and  said,  "But  where's  your  horse?" 
"That's  true,"  said  S looking  down  in  utter  as- 
tonishment, "I  must  have  forgotten  to  get  on  him." 

S was  famous  for  his  sharpness  in  choosing 

and  trading  horseflesh,  and  F used  to  call  him  on 

the  'phone,  saying  "Is  this  Herr  S ?     Guten  tag! 

I  am  Graf  Pumpernickel."  Then  he  would  elabo- 
rately arrange  a  rendezvous  in  some  very  public  spot 

in  Metz,  at  which  S was  to  appear  with  the  horse 

he  wished  to  trade.     Of  course  when  poor  S kept 

the  appointment,  only  a  group  of  jeering  young  ras- 
cals greeted  him,  and  S never  discovered  who 

Graf  Pumpernickel  was,  though  the  joke  was  often 
repeated. 

The  money  question  of  the  poorer  officers,  often 
proves  very  serious.  They  are  forbidden  to  earn 
money  in  any  way  except  by  writing.  They  cannot 
marry  the  girl  they  choose  unless  between  them  they 
have  a  certain  sum,  a  minimum;  this  keeps  many 
fine  young  officers  and  charming  girls  from  matri- 
mony; and  frequently  results  on  the  man's  side  in 
far-reaching  evils  of  entangling  affairs,  and  illegiti- 
mate children.  An  officer  said  to  me  once,  he  thought 
he  had  no  children,  but  a  pretty  woman  who  kept  a 
—195— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

shop  in  the  Kathedral  Platz  once  sent  him  a  baby's 
pillow  and  he  never  was  quite  sure  just  what  that 
meant.  The  Berlin  demi-mondaines  are  certainly  fas- 
cinating creatures,  dressed  in  the  most  exquisite  Paris 
clothes,  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  how  some  penni- 
less Graf  may  become  hopelessly  involved  in  an  affair 
with  one  of  them.     Officially  such  things  are  frowned 

on.     Talking  of  officers'  troubles  one  day,   F 

told  me  that  suicide  was  often  the  only  possible  solu- 
tion, and  for  the  honour  of  one's  regiment  one  was 
sometimes  expected  to  end  one's  life.  An  acquaint- 
ance of  his  had  had  a  revolver  sent  him  by  his  com- 
manding officer  as  a  gentle  hint,  on  finding  himself 
involved  in  a  scandalous  affair. 

In  one  Bavarian  regiment,  if  you  had  debts,  you 
were  liable  to  be  summoned  at  literally  a  moment's 
notice  before  your  Colonel,  and  ordered  to  pay  your 
debts  in  so  many  days,  or  leave  the  regiment.  The 
usual  thing  was  then  to  obtain  the  hand  in  marriage 
of  the  most  attractive  girl  you  knew  with  the  most 
attractive  bank-account.  Sometimes  they  disap- 
peared to  America.  Frau  Seebold  told  us  once,  while 
she  was  singing  in  New  York  one  winter,  with  an 
Austrian  prima  donna,  that  a  man  applied  at  the  door 
for  work  during  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  She  told 
him  to  clear  it  away,  and  then  come  in  for  his  money. 
He  came,  and  noticing  her  strong  accent,  asked  if 
—196— 


A  GERMAN  OFFICER'S  LIFE 


she  had  long  left  tlie  Fatherland.  On  her  replying 
"no,"  he  burst  into  a  flood  of  German,  and  told  her 
his  pitiful  story,  while  she  made  him  hot  cofifee  and 
tried  to  comfort  him.  He  had  been  a  lieutenant  in 
a  smart  regiment,  had  gotten  into  trouble  through  a 
brother  officer  betraying  his  trust  in  him,  and  had 
had  to  disappear  to  America  for  the  honour  of  the 
regiment.  The  poor  fellow  put  his  head  on  the 
kitchen  table  and  sobbed  as  he  told  her  how  he  sank 
lower  and  lower,  till  finally  he  shovelled  snow.  He 
also  told  her  there  was  a  club  in  New  York  where 
ex-officers  who  were  coachmen,  truck  drivers,  or  wait- 
ers by  day,  could  be  gentlemen  and  comrades  by 
night.  He  said  their  crests  were  carved  above  their 
places  on  the  wall,  and  no  one  could  belong  except 
those  of  high  birth.  All  this  was  years  ago,  and  I 
have  no  idea  whether  such  a  place  still  exists. 

When  a  sudden  silence  falls  on  a  party  in  Ger- 
many they  say,  "A  Lieutenant  pays  his  debts." 
Promotion  is  very  slow,  and  to  arrive  at  a  decent  in- 
come takes  years.  A  Bavarian  Colonel  has  only  eight 
thousand  marks  a  year.  The  equipment  of  an  offi- 
cer is  very  expensive;  their  Parade  uniforms  must 
always  be  spotless,  and  though  you  may  wear  tricot 
cloth  every  day,  your  parade  uniform  must  be  of 
finest  broadcloth,  and  your  sword  knots  of  shining 
silver  though  a  dash  of  rain  ruins  both.  The  scarlet 
—197— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


collars  are  more  extravagant  even  than  the  white 
cloth  ones,  as  white  may  be  cleaned  at  least  once  with 
gasoline,  but  scarlet  is  too  delicate,  and  the  slightest 
perspiration  makes  a  lasting  stain.  This  was  all  be- 
fore the  war,  though,  and  perhaps  the  dazzling  uni- 
forms have  given  place  for  ever  to  dull  khaki.  If  so 
Germany  is  the  drabber,  for  the  colour  was  a  thing  to 
make  one's  heart  leap.  In  Darmstadt  the  first  four 
rows  in  the  orchestra  were  reserved  for  officers  at 
reduced  rates,  and  that  beautiful  border  of  colour 
always  framed  the  stage  in  a  brilliant  band  on  opera 
nights. 

In  Metz  the  rule  against  appearing  in  "Civil"  on 

the  street  was  very  strict,  and  F used  to  come  to 

see  us  in  a  full  set  of  tennis  flannels  brandishing  a 
racket,  though  he  had  never  played  in  his  life!  In 
Darmstadt  the  same  strictness  prevailed.  A  friend 
of  ours,  a  Major  holding  a  very  high  position,  had  to 
dodge  round  comers,  when  he  was  out  of  uniform, 
in  case  the  terrible  General  Plueskow  should  see  him, 
and  order  him  twenty-four  hours'  room  arrest!  By 
the  way,  when  General  Plueskow,  who  was  about  six 
feet  seven,  was  in  France  as  a  young  man,  the  French 
made  a  quip  about  him,  "Who  is  the  tallest  officer  in 
the  German  army?"  was  the  question,  and  the  answer 
was  "Plueskow,  because  he  is  Plus  que  haul.'' 

—198— 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

GEESE   AND    GUESTS 

I  WAS  on  the  whole  very  happy  in  Darmstadt. 
All  the  leading  contralto  work  came  to  me  by 
right,  and  it  was  brightened  by  an  occasional 
role  in  operetta.  They  found  they  could  use  me  for 
smart  ladies  in  such  things  as  "Dollar  Prinzessin," 
and  I  greatly  enjoyed  the  dancing  and  gaiety  of  those 
performances.  We  had  many  operas  in  the  reper- 
toire that  are  seldom  or  never  heard  of  in  this  coun- 
try, "Evangeliman,"  "Hans  Heiling,"  "Sieben 
Schwaben,"  all  the  Lortzings,  "Undine,"  "Wildschu- 
etz,"  "Zar  und  Zimmermann,"  "Weisse  Dame,"  etc. 
Such  things  as  "Fra  Diavolo,"  and  "Lustige  Weiber," 
were  always  delightful  to  play. 

We  gave  "Koenigskinder"  the  first  year  it  was 
brought  out  in  Germany.  Our  clever  Kempin  de- 
signed charming  sets  for  it,  lit  in  the  modem  way, 
and  the  soprano,  though  a  plain  little  thing,  had  a 
heavenly  sympathetic  voice,  with  a  floating  quality 
most  appealing  in  the  high  part.  During  the  Pre- 
miere at  the  end  of  the  last  act,  just  as  we  were 
—199— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

taking  our  caUs  from  an  enthusiastic  public,  a  strange 
bearded  man  stepped  out  of  the  wings  and  joined  us. 
Humperdinck,  of  course,  whom  I  recognized  in  a 
minute  from  his  photos.  He  said  nothing  to  any 
of  us,  and  we  often  speculated  as  to  why  he  did 
not.  He  must  have  been  pleased  with  the  produc- 
tion, or  he  would  not  have  shown  himself;  indeed  we 
heard  he  was  pleased,  but  no  word  was  vouchsafed 
us. 

For  our  geese  we  had  grey  Pomeranian  beauties  and 
immense  white  birds  from  Italy.  The  Italians,  be- 
sides being  bigger  were  more  numerous;  they  saw 
their  opportunity  to  bully  the  Teutons  within  an  inch 
of  their  lives,  and  they  took  it.  There  was  a  tank 
of  real  water  on  the  stage,  in  which  they  loved  to 
splash,  but  do  you  suppose  a  German  goose  was 
ever  allowed  to  go  near  it?  Ominous  hisses  kept 
them  away,  and  they  hated  hissing  as  all  actors  do. 
The  foreigners  gobbled  up  all  the  food,  before  the 
others  could  get  it,  and  the  only  time  that  there  was 
any  unanimity  among  them  was  when  they  were  do- 
ing something  they  should  not.  One  night  the  larg- 
est Italian  stepped  into  a  depression  near  the  foot- 
lights, caught  his  foot,  squawked  loudly  and  passed 
on.  The  second  largest  immediately  followed  suit; 
there  were  eleven  of  them,  and  they  all  in  turn  caught 
a  foot,  squawked  and  waddled  on,  to  the  great  de- 
—200— 


GEESE  AND  GUESTS 


light  of  tlie  audience.     It  was  agonizing  for  us  on 
the  stage,  waiting  for  each  squawk. 

Animals  were  always  a  trial  to  the  performers, 
though  considered  to  lend  a  sure  magnificence  from 
the  manager's  point  of  view.     We  used  to  have  a  pack 
of  hounds  in  the  first  act  finale  of  "Tannhauser." 
They  always  behaved  beautifully  and  were  allowed  to 
run  without  leashes.     One  night,  however,  our  little 
round  Souffleuse,  as  the  prompter  is  called,  named 
"Bobberle"  by  the  tenor  as  she  was  as  broad  as  she 
was  long,  had  taken  her  bread  and  sausages  into  her 
tiny  pen.     The  dogs  suddenly  winded  this,  made  a 
dive    for    the    Souffler    Kasten    (prompter's    box), 
scratched  out  the  package,  devoured  the  contents  and 
then  politely  left  their  cards  on  the  box;  poor  Bob- 
berle in  helpless  rage  prompting  the  while.     Since 
that  night  the  dogs  have  been  chained  two  and  two. 
We  often  had  famous  guests.     Edith  Walker  sang 
several  times  with  us,   and  Knote  quite   as   often. 
Schumann-Heink,  a  great  friend  of  the  Grand  Duke's 
(she  told  me  she  would  go  through  fire  for  him), 
sang  Azucena.     She  had  always  been  my  girlhood's 
idol,  and  my  ideal  of  an  artist,  so  I  embraced  the  op- 
portunity to  send  her  a  wreath.     They  said  she  was 
much  pleased  by  the  attention  from  a  contralto !     She 
used  some  of  my  Schmink  to  make  up  with,  and  I 
proudly  have  the  stubs  to  this  day.     She  made  us 
—201— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

all  laugh  in  rehearsal.  When  she  says  in  the  last 
act  that  they  will  find  only  a  skeleton  when  they  come 
to  drag  her  from  her  prison,  she  passed  her  hands 
over  her  ample  contours  and  emitted  a  spontaneous 
chuckle  that  was  irresistibly  infectious.  Bahr  Mil- 
denburg  came  to  us  also  and  revealed  to  me  what 
Ortrud  might  be.  Especially  in  the  first  act  is  she 
overwhelming.  In  playing  the  part  later  I  always 
felt  her  influence,  and  many  things  I  do  in  that  act 
were  inspired  by  thoughts  she  gave  me.  Watch  most 
Ortruds  in  that  scene.  They  simply  stand  in  what 
they  consider  mantled  inscrutability,  trying  to  por- 
tray evil  in  a  heavy,  unsubtle  manner;  and  then  see 
Bahr  Mildenburg,  if  you  can.  All  the  really  great 
people  I  have  ever  met  are  unpretentious  and  ab- 
solutely charming  to  work  with.  Only  the  near-great 
seem  to  consider  it  necessary  to  remind  you  all  the 
time  that  they  are  other  than  you.  The  greater  the 
man  the  simpler  his  manner,  I  have  always  found, 
and  I  think  many  will  agree  with  me. 

There  was  an  excellent  store  of  men's  costumes  to 
call  on;  beautiful  embroidered  coats  and  waistcoats 
from  the  eighteenth  century,  real  uniforms  of  many 
regiments  of  bygone  days,  and  the  best  Wagnerian 
barbaric  stuff"  I  have  ever  seen,  with  the  exception  of 
van  Rooy's. 

One  of  the  principal  men  singers  was  a  tall  dark 
—202— 


GEESE  AND  GUESTS 


fellow,  with  a  most  passionate  disposition.  We 
played  together  often  and  he  fell  very  much  in  love 
with  me.  One  day  when  we  were  all  together  at  a 
wood  coffee  house,  his  wife  asked  him  how  he  had 
broken  his  watch  which  she  found  smashed  on  the 
floor  one  morning.  He  said  he  had  dropped  it  while 
reading  the  night  before,  but  he  told  me  he  had  been 
sitting  thinking  of  me  long  after  his  wife  had  re- 
tired, and  suddenly  saw  his  watch  shattered  in  a 
thousand  pieces  on  the  floor  across  the  room,  where 
he  had  hurled  it.  He  was  devoted  to  his  little  son,  a 
charming  sunny  little  chap,  with  the  dark  colouring 
of  his  mother. 

When  I  think  of  these  good  comrades  of  mine  I 
cannot  but  wonder  what  the  war  has  done  to  them. 
The  Hun  element  seemed  to  be  in  very  few  of 
them,  but  I  can  remember  it  in  one.  This  impossible 
person,  frightfully  conceited,  lacking  absolutely  in 
humour,  annoyed  and  goaded  me  through  two  long 
years  with  his  boorish  manners,  low  ideas  of  Amer- 
ican life,  loudly  expressed,  and  crass  ignorance  of 
all  ideals  of  living.  I  came  to  rehearsal  one  day  and 
found  the  colleagues  assembled  in  the  green  room 

looking  very  grave  over  something.     This  man  H 

said  "Ah,  here  she  is!"     Then  he  proceeded  to  hand 

round  to  every  one  a  clipping,  which  seemed  to  hurt 

and  annoy  them  all.     He  would  not  show  it  to  me, 

—203— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

insinuating  that  I  knew  all  about  it.  This  I  stood 
for  an  hour  and  a  half;  finally  I  insisted  on  seeing 
the  clipping  which  was  from  the  leading  paper  of 
a  neighbouring  city.  The  critic  reviewed  a  premiere 
we  had  just  given,  slating  every  one  but  myself,  and 
saying  that  I  belonged  on  the  world-stage.  This  had 
been  sufficient  grounds  for  my  persecutor  to  explain 
the  bad  criticisms  of  my  other  colleagues  to  them, 
by  telling  them  that  I  had  an  affair  with  this  to  me 
of  course,  utterly  unknown,  unheard  of  critic.  When 
I  realized  just  what  he  meant,  I  saw  black,  seized  a 
property  crook  stick  that  lay  on  the  table,  and  struck 
him  violently  on  tlie  arm.  I  then  came  to,  and 
rushed  to  the  window  to  cool  off.  He  took  the  blow 
without  a  word,  and  when  I  finally  turned  back  from 
the  window  ready  in  a  revulsion  of  feeling  to  tell  him 
that  I  was  sorry  to  have  hurt  him,  I  found  the  others 
all  smiling  broadly,  in  relief  that  I  had  cleared  the 
matter  up.  Of  course  none  of  them  had  believed  for 
a  second  what  he  had  tried  to  make  them  believe. 

We  gave  the  whole  of  Goethe's  "Faust"  in  four 
evenings.  We  had  Lassens'  music  and  I  sang  two 
angels  and  an  archangel,  a  sphinx  and  a  siren  during 
the  performances.  The  mechanical  part  of  the  pro- 
duction with  its  flying  witches,  flying  swings  for  Faust 
and  the  devil,  traps,  dark  changes,  built-up  effects 
reaching  from  the  foot-lights  to  almost  the  top  of 
—204— 


GEESE  AND  GUESTS 


the  proscenium  arch  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  and  a 
thousand  and  one  details  were  managed  without  a 
hitch. 

"Butterfly"  we  gave  for  the  first  time  while  I  was 
there,  and  tlie  Grand  Duke  took  a  great  interest  in 
the    performance.     He    sent    down    some    beautiful 
kimonos  from  his  private  collection  for  the  Butter- 
fly to  wear,  but  paid  me  the  compliment  of  letting  me 
get  my  own.     I  had  searched  costumers  and  Japa- 
nese shops  in  vain,  in  London,  Paris  and  Berlin,  for 
a  plain  coloured  kimono  such  as  servants  wear,  and 
finally  got  one  direct  from  Japan.     The  Suzukis  I 
have  always  seen  have  been  attired  like  second  edi- 
tions of  Butterfly  not  realizing  in  the  least  the  value 
of  the  contrast  to  them  if  they  look  like  a   real 
servant.     I  have  had  letters  from  people  who  knew 
the  East  intimately,  who  have  said  very  flattering 
things  about  my  portrayal  of  the  manner  of  a  Japa- 
nese, after  they  have  seen  my  performance,  in  com- 
pany  with    real    Japanese.     This,    considering    my 
height,  has  always  pleased  me  immensely.     If  you 
can  feel  in  a  vast  audience  that  even  one  person 
knows,  understands  and  appreciates  the  study  you 
have  put  upon  a  role  to  make  it  true  to  life,  you  are 
rewarded  for  your  pains. 


—205- 


CHAPTER  XIX 

RUSSIANS,    COMMON   AND    PREFERRED 

THE  Grand  Duke  was  always  very  good  to  me. 
He  liked  talking  English  with  my  sister  and 
me,  and  always  referred  to  the  Germans  as 
"they,"  never  as  "we."  He  asked  me  to  the  palace 
one  evening  to  dinner.  We  dined  in  a  room  hung 
with  portraits  of  his  beautiful  sisters.  They  looked 
like  fair  angels,  the  portraits  having  been  painted 
when  both  the  Czarina  of  Russia  and  her  sisters  were 
quite  young  girls.  We  were  told  by  friends  that 
the  Czarina  used  to  be  perfectly  exquisite  as  a  young 
woman,  usually  gowned  in  pale  grey  with  a  huge 
bunch  of  violets.  After  dinner  we  went  up  to  the 
Grand  Duke's  own  private  music  room  where  guests 
were  seldom  invited.  The  piano  was  set  high,  on  a 
hollow  inlaid  sounding  box,  an  idea  of  His  Royal 
Highness's  which  improved  the  tone  immensely.  Be- 
hind it  on  the  wall  was  a  life  size  painting  of  a 
Buddha-like  female  figure.  This  was  in  creamy 
brown  and  gold,  inlaid  with  chrysophrases,  and  lit 
—206— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 


mysteriously  at  will  from  either  side,  on  top,  or  bot- 
tom. The  lighting  he  preferred,  and  which  he  told 
me  he  used  when  he  played  for  hours — he  knew  not 
what — was  provided  by  four  rings  of  glass,  suspended 
horizontally  from  the  ceiling,  through  which  a  radi- 
ant sapphire  light  poured.  I  don't  know  how  it  was 
managed,  but  it  was  very  beautiful.  In  one  comer 
of  the  room  was  a  grotto,  also  blue  lit  with  a  charm- 
ing, quiet,  nude  figure,  and  a  fountain  that  drip- 
dripped  as  you  listened. 

I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  and  sang  all 
the  negro  melodies  my  father  had  collected  in  the  Ba- 
hamas years  before.  I  think  the  guests  were  rather 
bewildered  by  the  swift  pattering  English,  but  the 
Grand  Duke  and  his  cousin,  the  Princess  Victoria  of 
Schleswig-Holstein  were  charmed  with  them.  Prin- 
cess Victoria  and  her  mother,  Princess  Christian,  King 
Edward's  sister,  were  afterwards  good  enough  to  be 
patronesses  at  my  first  recital  in  London. 

The  Grand  Duke  loved  beautiful  Oriental  effects, 
and  never  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  the  least  German. 
He  came  to  a  supper-dance  once,  given  by  a  Baronin 

0 ,   dressed   as  an  oriental  potentate   of  sorts. 

He  kept  the  several  hundred  guests,  and  the  good 
dinner  waiting  over  an  hour,  because  he  insisted  on 
making  up  the  whole  court  himself.  His  wife  wore 
a  wonderful  headdress  she  made  herself,  copied  from 
—207— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SI1MGER 

the  fresco  in  his  music  room.  It  was  all  gold  beads 
and  emeralds.  Round  her  neck  was  a  huge  pear- 
shaped  green  stone.  I  was  thinking  of  the  chryso- 
phrases  I  had  seen  inset  in  the  wall  of  the  music 
room,  and  said:  "What  wonderful  chrysophrases, 
Your  Royal  Highness."  "Not  chrysophrases,  emer- 
alds," she  gently  corrected  me. 

The  Baroness  had  engaged  some  people  to  enter- 
tain the  Grand  Duke  at  supper,  served  in  the  huge 
new  ball-room,  but  two  days  before  the  ball,  she 
telephoned  she  was  in  despair  as  the  people  had 
abgesagt,  and  she  could  get  no  one  else.  Would  I  be 
so  awfully  kind  as  I  was  coming  anyway,  to  help  her 
out?  Every  one  in  town  knew  all  my  intimate  songs 
as  I  had  sung  them  at  various  functions  where  the 
court  was  invited,  so  Marjorie  and  I  had  to  put  on 
our  thinking  caps  to  find  a  new  "stunt."  Marjorie 
played  the  Laute,  that  big,  graceful  instrument  so 
popular  with  the  love-sick  girl  in  Germany,  and  I 
knew  some  old  French  songs  like  "Claire  de  Lune," 
that  I  sang  to  her  accompaniment.  I  went  to  the 
theatre  and  borrowed  the  tenor's  Pagliacci  costume, 
whitened  my  face  and  dressed  Marjorie  as  a  Pierrette. 
At  a  given  signal  I  sprang  from  between  purple  cur- 
tains, put  my  finger  to  my  lips,  turned  and  beckoned 
to  Pierrette  and  led  her  to  the  little  stage  the  Baroness 
had  built.  The  songs  went  off  very  well,  and  the  day 
—208— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 

was  saved.  Later  I  changed  to  a  Dalila  costume, 
and  danced  with  the  Grand  Duke,  dances  he  invented 
as  we  went  along,  a  favourite  amusement  of  his. 
He  always  held  his  partner  to  the  side,  with  one  arm 
about  her  waist,  and  I  must  say  it  was  very  practical 
and  comfortable.     He   danced   beautifully   and   his 

favourite  partner  was  a  tall  Fraulein  von  B a 

friend  of  ours.  Once  returning  from  a  concert  in 
a  little  town  in  the  Bergstrasse  where  I  had  been  sing- 
ing, and  which  had  been  attended  by  part  of  the  court, 
this  same  Hofdame  and  a  famous  violinist  happened 
to  be  with  us.  We  took  fourth-class  tickets  which 
entitle  you  to  travel  with  the  peasants  in  large 
wooden  box-cars,  with  benches  running  round  the 
walls.  We  all  danced  to  the  violinist's  playing,  while 
the  peasants  looked  solemnly  on  from  their  benches. 
I  collected  pfennige  in  a  hat  which  the  violinist  then 
put  on  his  head,  pfennigs  and  all.  It  was  a  lovely 
trip. 

We  heard  some  of  the  formal  court  balls  were 
most  amusing.  We  never  went  to  them  as  we  had 
not  had  ourselves  presented  formally,  though  this 
could  have  been  easily  arranged.  The  supper  usually 
consisted  largely  of  ham  and  spinach,  typical  of  the 
German  Royal  simplicity.  The  dancing  was  con- 
ducted under  difficulties.  Reversing  was  not  allowed, 
and  all  the  dancers  had  to  go  in  the  same  direction. 
—209— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

When  the  Grand  Duke  wished  to  dance,  his  Chamber- 
Iain  went  in  front  of  him  to  clear  the  way,  as  it  was 
always  dreadfully  crowded.  The  women  were  not 
permitted  to  pick  up  their  gowns,  although  trains 
were  de  rigueur  and  no  short  skirts  allowed.  As 
nearly  all  the  men  are  in  uniform,  including  spurs, 
the  ladies  have  to  make  frequent  trips  to  the  dress- 
ing room  to  repair  damages.  And  yet  it  is  fatal 
to  wear  an  old  gown,  as  the  Grand  Duke  has  a 
terrific  memory  and  will  say:  "Oh,  that  is  the 
charming  gown  you  wore  at  Kiel  two  years  ago, 
isn't  it?" 

All  the  officers  and  their  wives  above  the  rank  of 
Major  must  be  invited  to  the  court  balls,  and,  in  a 
small  principality  like  this,  those  of  lower  rank  re- 
ceive invitations  too.  One  Lieutenant,  a  member 
of  one  of  the  oldest  and  poorest  Darmstadt  families, 
brought  his  bride  to  her  first  court  ball.  She  was 
pretty,  but  beneath  him  in  social  position,  and  he 
had  forgotten  to  tell  her  the  rule  about  the  trains. 
She  lifted  her  bridal  finery  out  of  the  way  of  the 
devastating  spurs,  and  was  politely  requested  by  a 
messenger  from  Royalty  to  drop  it  again.  Alas! 
She  forgot  the  warning  and  again  switched  her  train 
up  from  the  floor,  upon  which  the  oldest  Ehrendame 
(Maid  of  honour),  requested  her  to  leave  the  danc- 
ing floor.  The  poor  husband  felt  it  so  keenly  that 
—210— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 

he  asked  to  be  transferred  to  a  regiment  in  another 
town,  and  his  request  was  granted. 

They  have  a  custom  of  choosing  an  erster  Taenzer 
for  every  big  ball.  He  is  usually  one  of  the  young 
officers  of  the  highest  birth,  and  his  duties  are  to 
assist  the  hostess  in  every  possible  way,  and  lead  all 
the  dances. 

Court  etiquette  is  really  a  most  hampering  in- 
stitution. In  talking  to  the  Grand  Duke  for  instance, 
I  might  not  introduce  a  topic,  he  had  to  give  all  the 
leads.  This  naturally  has  a  deadening  effect  on  the 
conversation.  At  first  the  tongue-paralyzing  "Yes, 
Your  Royal  Highness,"  "No,  Your  Royal  Highness," 
even  more  paralyzing  in  German,  "Ja  ivohl,  Koenig- 
liche  Hoheit/'  "Nein,  Koenigliche  Hoheit,"  had  to 
be  gone  through  with,  but  after  a  few  minutes'  con- 
versation I  might  follow  the  simple  English  custom 
in  talking  with  Royalty,  and  say  "Yes,  Sir,"  or  "No, 
Sir."  When  the  Grand  Duchess  left  a  crowded  ball- 
room it  was  painful  both  for  her  and  for  us.  As 
she  advanced,  modest  and  self-conscious,  one  made  a 
low  Knix;  to  one  lady  she  would  give  her  hand,  al- 
ways bristling  with  rings,  and  you  had  to  kiss  the 
back  of  it,  risking  cutting  your  lip  on  the  rings;  to 
another  merely  a  glance  of  the  eye,  or  a  nod  of  the 
head,  and  so  the  slow,  tortuous  exit  was  made.  In 
the  town  on  muddy  days,  you  might  come  on  the 
—211— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

Grand  Duke  suddenly  in  a  narrow  street  and  you 
had  to  back  up  against  the  wall  to  let  him  pass,  at 
the  same  time  dragging  your  best  skirt  in  the  dirt 
in  the  knee-straining  curtsey. 

I  often  thought  how  immensely  popular  would  be 
the  Prince  or  Grand  Duke  or  King,  who  would  one  day 
say,  "Oh,  stop  it,  all  of  you,  and  give  me  your  hands 
and  your  eyes  like  human  beings."  But  what  would 
the  Kaiser  say? 

Before  we  went  to  Darmstadt  the  Grand  Duke  had 
had  a  tragedy  from  which  they  said  he  had  never  re- 
covered. His  adored  little  daughter  Elisabeth  was  the 
idol  of  every  one,  and  the  town  children's  fairy  prin- 
cess. She  was  asked  to  visit  her  aunt,  the  Czarina, 
at  Petrograd.  While  there  she  died  very  suddenly, 
though  in  perfect  health  when  she  left  Darmstadt. 
She  is  believed  to  have  eaten  some  poisoned  food 
prepared  for  the  Czar's  own  children.  A  monu- 
ment to  her  in  the  Herren  Garten  at  Darmstadt,  shows 
a  glass  coffin  of  the  fairytale  type;  in  it  lies  sleep- 
ing "Snow-White,"  with  the  gnomes  around  her. 
Above,  a  weeping  willow  brushes  soft  fingers  over 
the  sleeping  princess. 

We  had  several  Backfisch  admirers;  the  English 

"Flapper"  comes  nearer  to  translating  this  strange 

word  than  anything  I  know.     These  girls  followed 

us  closely  in  the  streets  for  a  year  and  finally  met  us. 

—212— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 

At  first  my  sister  had  her  band  and  I  had  mine. 
Finally  they  dwindled  to  just  two,  very  sweet,  charm- 
ing young  girls,  of  whom  we  became  very  fond. 
Marjorie's  was  the  daughter  of  a  colonel,  a  count,  who 
was  very  strict  and  military  with  his  delicate  flower 
of  a  girl. 

As  I  have  said,  strange  revealing  glimpses  of  the 
Hun  element  came  to  us  now  and  then,  the  spirit 
which  now  seems  to  engulf  all  the  better  German 
people.  Two  of  our  girl  friends  were  daughters  of 
a  famous  noble  house.  Their  father  was  a  very  old 
General  who  lived  in  great  seclusion.     His  pretty, 

fair  daughters  L and  E ,  were  often  at  our 

house,  and  were  very  fond  of  my  mother  who  lived 
with  us  then.  The  old  General  finally  died,  and  the 
girls  were  worn  and  bent  with  grief  from  his  long 
illness  and  the  trials  of  nursing  him.  Their  brother 
was  with  his  regiment,  and  for  some  reason  could 
not  get  to  them  in  time  to  make  arrangements  for  the 
funeral.  The  girls  were  left  badly  off,  and  could  not 
afford  a  pretentious  ceremony.  When  they  tried  to 
explain  this  to  the  undertaker,  he  was  incredulous, 
but  finally  said  with  a  brutal  sneering  laugh:  "Of 
course  you  can  have  a  pauperis  funeral  if  you  want 
one."  Everything  was  done  in  a  way  to  make  it  all 
as  hard  as  possible  for  the  poor  girls  by  these  brutes, 
and  they  used  to  come  and  tell  us  with  floods  of  tears 
—213— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

of  the  insults  they  had  to  swallow.  At  last  the  brother 
arrived,  and  of  course  as  soon  as  he  appeared  in 
uniform  he  was  bowed  down  to  and  served  as  only 
a  uniform  is  served  in  Germany  by  such  brutal  types. 

During  the  second  year  in  October  word  came  to  us 
that  the  Czar  of  Russia  was  coming  to  rest  with  his 
family  at  the  Grand  Duke's  hunting  lodge,  just  out- 
side Darmstadt.  We  were  nervous  at  the  thought  of 
all  the  Russian  students  who  always  throng  the  Tech- 
nical School  at  Darmstadt.  It  seemed  such  an  easy 
thing  to  bomb  a  man  in  such  a  small  quiet  town. 
They  took  great  precautions,  however,  and  nothing 
happened. 

I  sang  many  times  for  the  Czar,  in  "command  per- 
formances" of  Dalila,  etc.  When  he  left  he  was 
good  enough  to  send  me  a  brooch  "as  a  remembrance 
of  his  wife."  It  is  the  Imperial  crown,  with  sapphire 
eyes,  surrounded  by  a  laurel  wreath.  He  used  to 
sit  in  a  box  nearest  the  stage  with  the  Grand  Duke. 
In  the  next  box  were  the  little  Grand  Duchesses, 
Olga,  Tatiana  and  Marie,  and  sometimes  Anastasia, 
the  littlest  one  of  all.  They  would  call  in  the  in- 
tervals, "Papa,  come  in  here;  do  Papa  dear."  They 
always  spoke  English  togetlier.  He  would  go  to 
them  and  they  would  climb  all  over  him,  petting  him 
and  playing  with  his  hair.  It  was  rather  charming 
to  watch. 

—214— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 

Prince  Henry  of  Prussia  was  there  too,  as  these 
three,  the  Grand  Duke,  Czar,  and  Prince  Henry  are,  or 
were,  fast  friends.  When  they  left  the  theatre  a 
curious  crowd  always  gathered  to  see  them,  but  we 
never  had  so  much  as  a  glimpse  of  them,  for  five 
black,  mysterious  motors,  closely  hooded,  left  in  a 
procession,  and  no  one  ever  knew  which  one  the 
Czar  was  in.  The  Czarina  never  came  to  the  theatre; 
she  was  intensely  nervous  just  then,  and  went  no- 
where. 

The  Czar  was  to  leave  Darmstadt  on  the  Monday, 
and  on  Sunday  we  were  to  sing  "Meistersinger"  for 
him.  The  day  before  I  had  felt  frightfully  ill,  and 
suffered  as  I  had  been  doing  for  several  weeks  with 
pains  in  my  side.  Sunday  morning  I  sent  for  a 
doctor,  the  pain  being  so  bad  I  was  afraid  I  would 
not  be  able  to  get  through  the  performance  that  night. 
The  doctor  in  turn  sent  for  the  surgeon,  who  packed 
me  off  in  an  hour  to  the  hospital  for  an  appendicitis 
operation.  The  next  morning  I  was  operated  upon, 
and  they  told  me  the  Grand  Duke  had  sent  to  ask  how 
I  was,  as  the  Czar  wished  to  know  if  the  operation  was 
successful  before  he  left  town.  I  thought  it  showed 
a  charming,  kindly  thoughtfulness  of  others. 

The  nurses  were  all  most  kind  to  me  in  the  hospital, 
but  the  surgeon  was  utterly  uninterested  in  anything 
but  the  healing  of  the  wound  itself,  and  paid  abso- 
—215— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

lutely  no  attention  to  the  other  rather  distressing  oc- 
currences of  my  ilhiess.  One  could  see  that  a  highly 
strung,  nervous  American  woman  would  have  fared 
badly  with  him. 

Sazonoff  was  with  the  Czar's  suite,  and  I  remember 
the  Darmstadtites  were  much  insulted  because  he 
always  took  the  train  to  Frankfurt  half  an  hour  away, 
or  to  Wiesbaden  (one  hour),  for  luncheon  or  dinner, 
as  he  said  there  was  nothing  fit  to  eat  at  the  local 
hotels.     I  secretly  quite  agreed  with  him. 

We  often  went  ourselves  to  Frankfurt  for  tea,  or 
a  wild  American  craving  would  come  over  me  for 
lobster  or  chicken  salad,  and  we  would  up  and  away 
to  Wiesbaden  for  supper.  Darmstadt  was  very  con- 
veniently situated  for  short  trips,  surrounded  as  it 
is  by  interesting  towns — Heidelberg  only  a  short  dis- 
tance south  of  us,  or  Mannheim  close  enough  for  a 
day's  visit.  I  sang  Niklaus  in  "Hoffmann"  in  Mann- 
heim for  the  first  time  without  a  rehearsal,  having 
learnt  the  part  in  my  room  at  the  piano  without  a 
Kapellmeister  to  give  me  the  tempi,  and  never  having 
seen  the  opera.  That  was  a  trying  experience,  not 
helped  by  the  tenor  knocking  me  flat  down  in  the 
Venetian  scene  as  I  rushed  on  to  tell  him  that  the 
watch  was  coming.  He  weighed  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  and  colliding  with  him  in  mid- 
—216— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 

career,  I  gave  him  right  of  way  by  going  down  flat 
on  my  back. 

At  Frankfurt  we  heard  a  wonderful  performance  of 
"Elektra"  with  Richard  Strauss  conducting  and  Bahr- 
Mildenburg  as  Klytemnestra.  I  shall  never  forget 
her  in  it,  nor  the  orchestral  effects  Strauss  produced. 
I  felt  at  the  end  as  if  I  had  been  watching  an  insane 
woman,  so  marvellous  was  Bahr-Mildenburg's  por- 
trayal of  the  half -demented  creature.  Her  large  face, 
pale,  witli  haunting,  sick  eyes,  her  scarlet,  gold-em- 
broidered draperies,  the  clutching,  bony  lingers  on 
her  jewelled  staff,  the  swaying  body  she  seemed  barely 
able  to  keep  erect,  the  psychology  of  the  queen's  char- 
acter, all  this  together  combined  to  give  the  exact 
effect  she  wanted,  and  to  convey  it  strongly  and 
clearly  to  tlie  farthest  seat  in  the  big  theatre. 

We  grew  to  know  very  well  a  Russian  boy,  whose 
family  had  interests  in  Darmstadt.  He  told  us  much 
of  Russia  and  he  and  his  sister  seemed  creatures  of 
a  different  world  to  us.  She  was  frail  and  exotic 
looking,  with  very  curly,  bronze  hair,  a  skin  like  a 
gardenia  petal,  and  the  tiniest  full-lipped,  blood-red 
mouth  I  have  ever  seen.  At  home  she  spent  most  of 
her  time  in  the  saddle  or  in  the  stables.  She  had 
men's  uniforms  made,  and  rode  out  with  the  officers 
dressed  as  they  were.  They  could  both  drink  enor- 
—217— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

mous  quantities  of  Bowie  and  follow  it  up  with  cham- 
pagne and  Swedish  punch,  and  never  even  flush  pink. 

Only  S used  to  become  very  talkative  and  spout 

Greek  verses  by  the  hour.  At  that  time  we  lived  in  a 
pension,  and  every  Saturday  night  or  after  a  big 
performance  of  mine,  say  "Carmen,"  he  would  ar- 
range an  elaborate  fete.  Sometimes  we  all  had  to 
appear  dressed  as  Romans  in  sheets  and  wreaths,  be- 
fore he  was  satisfied.  One  night  I  remember  I  grew 
tired  of  our  all  being  so  monotonously  beautiful,  and 
came  down  dressed  as  a  Suff^ragette,  with  the  false 
nose  I  wear  as  the  Witch  in  "Haensel  und  Gretel," 
flowing  grey  locks,  spectacles,  and  some  ridiculous 

costume,  half  Greek  and  half  witch.     S was  so 

horrified  that  he  never  once  looked  at  me  during  the 
evening  and  I  finally  saw  that  he  was  so  genuinely 
unhappy  that  I  changed  to  something  more  esthetic. 
He  had  as  much  spending  money  apparently  as  he 
desired,  but  his  sister  never  had  a  cent.  She  had 
no  evening  gown  and  only  shabby  clothes.  She 
seemed  blissfully  unaware  of  any  shortcomings  of 
her  wardrobe,  however,  and  only  once  felt  the  lack 
of  a  party  dress.  We  arranged  something  for  her 
that  time,  as  she  had  no  money  to  spend,  and  her 
brother  did  not  seem  to  think  it  necessary  to  give  her 

any.     After  a   particularly   successful   fete,   S 

would  wander  the  deserted  streets  and  kneel  before 
—218— 


RUSSIANS,  COMMON  AND  PREFERRED 

fountains  in  the  public  squares,  dipping  water  from 
them  with  his  derby  hat,  and  pouring  it  on  the  earth 
as  libations  to  Pallas  Athene,  as  he  always  called 
me.  And  he  was  not  in  the  least  drunk,  if  you  will 
believe  me,  only  fearfully  Russian. 

When  they  left  the  pension  their  luggage  at  the 
station  consisted  of  a  pile  of  shabby  hand-baggage, 
mostly  newspaper  parcels.  The  girl  had  no  purse 
but  a  soldier's  little  coin  case  of  goatskin,  so  Frau 

von  A emptied  her  own  bag,  and  stuffed  L 's 

possessions  into  it.  Their  indifference  to  all  tliese 
things  which  would  all  have  been  regulated  and  in 
keeping  with  their  position  if  they  had  belonged  to 
any  other  country  than  Russia,  I  believe  was  quite 
typical  and  seemed  to  me  rather  sublime. 

S afterwards  made  a  trip  round  the  world. 

Goodness  knows  how  he  found  out  whether  I  was 
singing  or  not,  but  some  night  after  singing  one  of 
my  big  roles  I  would  receive  a  monstrous  basket  of 
red  roses,  or  an  armful  of  orchids,  cabled  for  from 
Honolulu  or  China.  He  even  remembered  my  Dachs- 
hund's birthday,  and  cabled  the  baker  to  send  Peter 
a  wonderful  Torte  with  birthday  candles. 


-219- 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   grandmothers'    BALLET 

ALL  this  time  I  was  working  very  hard  at  the 
opera.  Our  repertoire  was  very  large,  in- 
cluding nearly  all  the  Italian  operas,  from 
Verdi  to  Wolf-Ferrari,  and  the  German  operas  from 
the  time  of  Weber  and  Mozart  up  to  Humperdinck. 
Everything  was  given  in  German,  some  of  tlie  trans- 
lations good  and  some  poor.  At  first  it  had  seemed 
terribly  difficult  to  accustom  myself  to  the  German 
sounds  in  Dalila  or  Carmen,  after  the  sonorous 
French,  but  latterly  German  came  to  seem  quite  as 
natural,  though  never  so  beautiful  nor  singable.  Ev- 
ery one  in  the  audience,  however,  understood  the  text, 
and  surely  this  is  the  important  thing.  How  can  they 
enter  into  the  spirit  of  an  opera  when  they  are  guess- 
ing whether  that  is  a  love  phrase  or  an  insult  that 
the  tenor  is  singing?  The  prejudice  against  trans- 
lating into  the  vernacular  has  had  to  be  overcome  in 
nearly  all  European  countries  and  will,  I  suppose, 
be  only  a  question  of  time  with  us.  In  Russia,  op- 
eratic composers  flowered  and  reached  their  world 
—220— 


THE  GRANDMOTHERS'  BALLET 


prominence  only  after  the  Russian  language  was  used 
for  the  libretto.  In  Germany  Italian  was  discarded 
for  the  language  of  the  singers  only  after  a  long  Strugs 
gle,  but  the  great  abundance  of  German  operas  came 
after  it  was  adopted,  not  before.  In  France  also 
Italian  libretti  were  used  for  generations,  but  can  any 
one  imagine  a  Debussy  composing  a  "Pelleas  et  Meli- 
sande"  to  an  Italian  libretto?  Each  school  must 
find  itself  in  its  own  tongue,  and  I  question  whether 
these  matters  can  be  hurried. 

I  have  always  thought  a  good  English  translation 
would  contribute  more  to  the  general  pleasure  of  the 
audience  than  a  misunderstood  gabble  of  words,  even 
though  English  is  perhaps  lacking  in  the  subtle  charm 
worked  upon  us  by  foreign  speech. 

My  colleagues  by  this  time  accepted  me  almost 
as  a  German,  and  I  did  the  routine  work  as  though 
I  were  a  German.  Surely  this  experience  is  more 
profitable  than  an  occasional  appearance  on  a  more 
famous  stage,  such  as  many  of  my  own  country- 
women aimed  at.  I  often  heard  of  their  struggles 
against  intrigue,  and  long  pauses  between  roles,  while 
they  waited  hoping  for  a  chance.  We  all  worked 
steadily  through  the  season  and  rehearsed  every  day. 
The  scheme  of  rehearsals  was  worked  out  and  given 
to  us  every  two  weeks  on  a  printed  Spielplan.  This 
showed  us  exactly  which  operas  and  plays  were 
—221— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

scheduled  for  the  next  fortnight,  and  all  the  rehearsals 
we  should  have  to  attend,  beginning  with  the  room  re- 
hearsals for  the  soloists  alone,  then  the  stage  rehears- 
als without  chorus,  the  stage  rehearsal  with  chorus  and 
piano,  and  finally  the  General  Probe,  or  last  orchestra 
rehearsal  on  the  stage,  with  everything  as  at  a  per- 
formance. At  the  side  of  the  Spielplan  was  a  tenta- 
tive list  of  works  in  preparation  with  their  probable 
dates  of  appearance.  All  this  made  the  work  very 
systematic,  and  I  knew  exactly  what  time  I  should  have 
for  study  and  what  for  myself.  If  a  rare  week  passed 
without  my  singing  at  least  once  I  grew  restless  and 
unhappy.  My  constant  aim  was  to  learn  and  de- 
velop, and  every  role  taught  me  something.  Versa- 
tility is  a  most  useful  attribute  on  the  operatic  stage, 
and  if  you  play  all  the  way  from  Fides  to  soubrette 
parts  in  operetta,  and  the  audience  sticks  to  you,  you 
may  be  considered  fairly  versatile. 

I  remember  one  strenuous  week  in  particular.  I 
had  to  sing  Dalila  in  Prague  on  Wednesday  eve- 
ning. "Zauberfloete"  was  scheduled  for  Tuesday  in 
Darmstadt,  and  by  taking  a  late  train  I  could  arrive 
in  Prague  in  time  to  dress  for  Dalila.  I  had  to  sing 
the  last  bit  of  the  Third  Lady  in  "Zauberfloete"  in 
travelling  dress  with  a  black  cloak  thrown  over  me 
and  then  rush  straight  to  the  train.  We  travelled 
all  night,  changing  at  Dresden  in  the  middle  of  the 
—222— 


THE  GRANDMOTHERS^  BALLET 

night,  and  waiting  at  the  noisy  station  for  some  time. 
Arrived  at  Prague  I  went  straight  to  the  theatre,  the 
old  one  with  gas  lamps  for  footlights.  "Don  Gio- 
vanni" of  Mozart  was  given  for  the  first  time  in  this 
very  theatre  they  told  me,  and  was,  I  believe,  directed 
by  Mozart  himself.  I  duly  sang  my  Dalila  and  sped 
back  to  Darmstadt,  where  I  had  to  sing  Frau  Reich 
Thursday  night;  and  this  tiring  lady  has  to  have  a 
certain  lightness  of  touch  no  matter  how  much  train 
smoke  you  have  swallowed.  My  troubles  were  not 
over  yet  as  I  had  to  take  the  train  that  night  for  Edin- 
boro,  Scotland,  where  I  was  to  appear  with  the  or- 
chestra, and  on  the  following  night  in  Glasgow.  The 
journey  was  long  and  tedious,  and  the  only  bright  spot 
I  can  remember  was  while  we  crossed  a  bit  of  Bel- 
gium. We  had  had  a  lunch  basket  handed  in  with  the 
typical  bottle  of  vin  rouge,  and  neither  Marjorie  nor 
I  wanted  it.  The  next  time  our  train  slowed  down 
we  happened  to  have  an  engine  beside  us,  and  I 
handed  the  wine  through  the  window  to  the  driver, 
who  received  it  with  true  Belgian  imperturbability. 
I  was  very  tired  and  very  sick  crossing  the  chan- 
nel. We  arrived  in  London  in  a  terrible  storm,  feel- 
ing absolutely  exhausted.  Marjorie  said,  "The  only 
thing  that  hasn't  happened  is,  that  we  have  not  yet 
lost  our  baggage."  We  waited  on  the  cold  platform 
— it  was  November, — till  all  the  luggage  had  been 
—223— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

taken  out  of  the  vans — no  familiar  trunks  for  us. 
I  went  worn  out  to  the  hotel,  leaving  poor  Marjorie 
to  struggle.  She  made  the  round  of  the  stations 
where  possible  trains  from  the  coast  might  be  met 
— all  of  no  avail.  The  next  day  was  Sunday  and 
we  could  not  possibly  have  found  a  gown  for  me  to 
use  at  the  concert.  We  slept  that  night  in  towels  and 
underclothes,  and  if  you've  ever  done  it  you  know 
what  sort  of  an  all-night  funeral  that  is.  The  next 
morning  early  the  missing  trunks  were  found  and  we 
continued  our  journey.  We  were  much  amused  when 
we  found  that  no  trains  left  for  Scotland  during  the 
day  on  Sunday,  and  that  they  had  to  wait  for  the 
friendly  cover  of  the  night  before  they  dared  nefari- 
ously to  slip  out  and  break  the  Sabbath  calm.  Mon- 
day night  I  almost  broke  down  on  the  platform  during 
the  concert,  in  one  of  the  hugest  halls  in  the  world. 
Marjorie  comforted  me  and  sent  for  some  whiskey 
which  I  gulped  down  between  songs.  Gradually  the 
chilled  blood  in  me  thawed,  and  my  voice  with  it,  my 
nerve  came  back  and  I  scored  a  success,  as  I  did  the 
following  night  in  Glasgow.  We  then  went  back  to 
Darmstadt  the  quickest  possible  way,  having  been  in 
six  countries  in  as  many  days. 

We  walked  a  great  deal  in  the  beautiful  country 
round  Darmstadt,  and  I  sometimes  rode  over  the  miles 
of  charming  bridle  paths.     We  made  expeditions  into 
—224— 


THE  GRANDMOTHERS^  BALLET 

the  beautiful  Taunus  country,  all  gold  and  scarlet  in 
autumn.  The  delightful  custom  of  having  Wald 
Haeuse  at  convenient  distances  in  every  direction 
round  the  city,  makes  these  expeditions  a  great  pleas- 
ure. The  coffee  is  usually  good,  and  the  cakes  al- 
ways so. 

Darmstadt  is  on  the  Bergstrasse,  almost  a  highway 
through  that  part  of  Germany,  and  we  were  pestered 
one  year  with  a  constant  stream  of  beggars.  They 
were  usually  ex-theatre  people  they  said,  and  I  found 
they  only  came  to  me  and  not  to  my  colleagues,  so 
word  must  have  been  passed  round  that  an  "easy" 
and  extremely  rich  American  lived  in  the  town,  who 
was  good  for  at  least  a  mark. 

The  strangest  stories  circulated  about  us,  and  why 
we  should  choose  Germany  to  live  in.  One  was  that 
I  was  the  illegitimate  daughter  of  King  Edward, 
therefore  a  cousin  of  the  Grand  Duke,  which  explained 
a  likeness  to  him  which  I  could  see  myself.  They 
said  my  sister  and  mother  were  really  no  relation 
to  me,  but  simply  paid  to  take  care  of  me. 

As  I  have  said  we  had  several  picturesque  privileges 
because  I  was  a  Grossherzogliche  Beamtin — an  em- 
ployee of  the  Royal  house.  I  used  to  go  on  cer- 
tain days  to  the  old  Schloss  near  the  theatre,  no  longer 
the  residence  of  the  reigning  family  as  it  was  too  old 
to  be  comfortable.  I  passed  under  shadowy  arches 
—225— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

and  through  cobblestone  courts,  surrounded  by  aged 
windows,  till  I  came  to  where  the  Schloss  Kellermann 
lived.  I  went  down  a  steep  old  stone  stair  into  the 
bowels  of  the  earth,  where  I  was  greeted  by  the 
Head  Cellarman,  who  wore  a  white  apron  and  took 
orders  at  a  candle-lit  table.  I  told  him  just  how 
much  Rotwein  I  wanted,  or  perhaps  a  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne for  a  treat,  and  paid  a  ridiculously  small  sum 
for  it  all.  The  Grand  Duke  got  it  duty  free  and  at 
special  rates,  and  we,  as  his  employes  were  entitled  to 
this  rate  too.  For  a  small  fee  two  large  flunkies  in 
Grossherzogliche  uniforms  would  deliver  it  to  my 
apartment  later  in  the  day.  I  believe  the  cellars  were 
very  wonderful,  but  I  never  was  asked  to  investigate. 

I  think  only  the  principals  had  this  privilege, 
neither  the  chorus  nor  the  ballet  sharing  it,  but  I  may 
be  mistaken. 

Our  ballet  was  rather  pitiful.  Kind-hearted  di- 
rectors hesitated  to  dismiss  faithful  servants  of  years' 
standing,  and  the  result  was  a  phalanx  of  grandmoth- 
ers at  the  back  of  the  stage.  I  used  to  give  my  old 
clothes  to  the  chorus  and  ballet  women,  and  one  fam- 
ily in  particular  I  almost  adopted.  The  poor  mother 
was  a  handsome  creature  of  about  forty-five.  Her 
eldest  son  was  twenty-four  and  a  carpenter,  and  two 
babies  were  bom  while  I  was  in  Darmstadt.  Chil- 
dren of  all  ages  came  in  between.  The  father  drank 
—226— 


THE  GRANDMOTHERS^  BALLET 

and  used  to  ill-treat  the  mother,  who  had  to  dance 
gaily  as  a  peasant  boy  or  gypsy,  and  then  go  home  to 
all  that  misery.  Little  by  little  I  told  the  officers' 
wives  I  knew  about  these  things  and  they  were  very 
kind  about  sending  their  worn  clothing  to  me  to  dis- 
tribute amongst  the  women.  I  believe  it  amused 
them  very  much  to  see  their  old  evening  gowns 
washed,  always  washed,  and  refurbished,  doing  duty 
as  "Empire"  gowns,  or  as  the  latest  thing  in  Paris 
creations  on  the  backs  of  the  walk-on  ladies  in  the 
French  comedies.  Eighty  marks  a  month  is  not  much, 
even  if  it  is  paid  all  the  year  round,  and  somebody 
has  got  to  help. 

We  had  a  school  of  forestry  in  the  town,  largely  at- 
tended by  American  boys.  It  was  in  the  period 
when  our  Western  boys  padded  their  shoulders  tre- 
mendously and  wore  hump-toed  boots.  These  boys 
were  all  husky  specimens,  who  dressed  in  the  most 
f oresty  of  forest  clothes,  boots  laced  to  the  knee,  wide 
western  hats  and  flannel  shirts.  The  woods  round 
Darmstadt  are  all  most  tame  and  well  looked  after, 
but  the  boys  seemed  to  think  they  were  dressing  the 
part  correctly.  When  left  to  themselves  these  boys 
were  quite  well  behaved,  but  the  German  students 
tried  to  bully  them.  The  beer-drinking  type  of 
student,  with  his  ridiculous  little  coloured  cap  stuck 
on  one  side  of  his  head,  thinks  he  owns  his  own  par- 
—227— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

ticular  cafe  where  his  Stamm-Tisch  may  happen  to  be. 
They  objected  to  various  mannerisms  of  the  American 
boys  who  visited  these  cafes,  and  the  American  boys 
replied  in  their  own  western  way  by  knocking  the 
Germans  down.  This  method  of  fist  fighting  was 
quite  unknown  to  the  Germans,  who  replied  by  send- 
ing a  challenge  to  duel  according  to  their  custom. 
The  American  boys  in  turn  knew  nothing  of  duelling 
and  refused  to  fight  except  with  fists.  I  think  a 
good  many  fat  Germans  bit  the  dust  and  got  up 
swearing  vengeance.  Finally,  we  heard,  the  Ameri- 
can boys  wired  to  their  fellow  countrymen  who  were 
students  in  Frankfort,  "Come  over  tonight  and  clean 
up."  Exactly  what  happened  we  never  heard,  but 
as  both  sides  grew  to  understand  and  respect  each 
other  more,  the  trouble  gradually  subsided.  The 
Russian  element,  usually  rather  undesirable  in  Darm- 
stadt, contributed  largely  to  the  disturbances. 

There  were  several  duelling  corps  in  town,  and  an 
American  friend  of  ours,  a  student  at  the  technical 
college,  told  us  of  witnessing  their  extremely  bloody 
combats.  Part  of  the  glory  is  to  have  yourself  sewed 
up  without  an  anesthetic,  and  go  on  fighting,  and  we 
heard  sickening  details.  It  is  supposed  to  make  your 
nerve  tremendously  steady,  and  the  ones  who  go 
through  the  stated  number  of  duels,  fighting  their  way 
slowly  through  a  regular  course  of  progression,  al- 
—228— 


THE  GRANDMOTHERS'  BALLET 

ways  the  winner,  must  indeed  be  shock  and  disgust 
proof.  The  authorities  frowned  on  the  practice  but 
it  existed  in  force  nevertheless.  One  boy  killed  an- 
other while  we  were  there;  he  was  imprisoned,  but 
on  his  return  was  treated  as  a  conquering  hero  by  the 
members  of  his  corps.  That  surely  belongs  to  Hun 
training. 


—229- 


CHAPTER  XXI 

STAGE   FASHIONS   AND   THE    GLORY   OF    COLOUR 

WE  played  continuously  nine  months  from  Sep- 
tember to  June,  and  then  scattered  for  the 
holidays.  I  often  went  to  Munich  for  the 
Wagnerian  Festspiel.  We  have  many  German  rela- 
tives (though  not  a  drop  of  German  blood),  as  three 
of  my  grandfather's  sisters  married  German  officers. 
Through  remote  ancestors  we  also  have  dozens  of 
cousins  in  the  north  of  Germany.  The  Munich  rela- 
tions I  dearly  loved.  The  son  of  the  famous  court 
architect,  von  Klenze,  who  built  nearly  all  the  noble 
buildings  in  Munich  for  the  old  King  Ludwig  of 
Bavaria,  who  abdicated  his  throne — married  my 
mother's  aunt,  and  their  descendants  were  always 
very  charming  to  me.  The  northern  cousins  who 
lived  in  East  and  North  Prussia  we  always  heard 
were  quite  different,  cold,  critical,  and  not  warm, 
and  artistic,  and  friendly,  as  I  found  our  southern 
relations.  In  Darmstadt  they  seem  between  the  two 
peoples  in  character,  and  of  course  in  the  theatre 
one  meets  all  sorts. 

—230— 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 


Our  Souffleuse,  "Bobberle,"  was  from  Schwabia, 
and  her  sister  was  a  character.  She  proved  her  ele- 
gance by  wearing  the  most  brilliant  colours  on  her 
fat  little  body,  and  plastering  the  family  jewelry  all 
over  herself.  She  screamed  remarks  about  the  mem- 
bers of  the  company  to  her  friends  between  the  acts, 
and  the  remarks  were  not  as  undiscerning  as  you 
might  think. 

The  top  box  on  the  right  side  of  the  house,  was 
reserved  for  the  humble  hangers-on  of  the  Personal. 
My  sister  used  often  to  sit  up  there  as  she  could  just 
walk  in  without  my  having  to  ask  for  a  seat,  while 
my  mother  sat  in  state  in  a  specially  reserved  seat  in 
the  orchestra,  for  which  I  had  to  ask  each  time.  The 
oldest  mothers  and  the  Souffleuse's  sister  used  to  be 
an  unending  joy  to  my  sister,  in  their  comments. 
The  order  of  their  seats  was  theirs  by  divine  right, 
they  thought,  and  woe  betide  some  comparatively 
new-comer  who  would  venture  to  take  one-eyed  Frau 

S 's  or  fat  Frau  W 's  chair.     It  was  called 

the  Raben's  Nest  (the  raven's  nest),  and  we  felt  its 
influence  hanging  over  us  on  the  stage.  I  was  quite 
familiar  with  the  remarks  that  were  made  nightly: 

"Ach!  unsere  Kaethe  spielt  ja  Heute!"     ("Oh! 

our  little  Katy  plays  tonight"),  the  mother  of  Katy 

would  announce  rapturously,   and  settle  down  with 

her  chin  on  die  rail,  and  her  back  bent  like  a  jack- 

—231— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

knife,  for  three  hours  of  proud  but  critical  joy.  She 
had  probably  toiled  most  of  tlie  night  with  her  little 
seamstress  to  turn  out  the  marvels  Kaethe  wore. 

There  are  certain  props  that  lend  an  unfailing  air 
of  gorgeousness  to  the  provincial  German  mind, 
whether  viewed  from  in  front  of,  or  behind  the  foot- 
lights. An  aigrette  does  duty  for  years  and  has  a 
sure-fire  elegance;  pinned  on  a  winter  hat  of  black 
velvet,  or  a  summer  leghorn,  or  worn  with  a  bow  in 
an  evening  coiffure,  you  know  its  wearer  belongs  to 
the  most  exclusive  social  set.  Our  coiffeur  had  only 
one  eye,  but  used  to  bring  that  one  as  close  as  possi- 
ble to  the  head  of  her  victim  and  make  it  do  duty  for 
two.  She  turned  out  wonderful  puffs  and  curls.  In 
"Dollar  Prinzessin"  I  introduced  a  new  style  of  hair 
dressing  from  Paris:  the  hair  parted,  and  a  multitude 
of  close  curls  at  the  back  of  the  head,  the  whole  sur- 
rounded by  a  rather  broad  band  of  ribbon  of  the 
shade  one  desired.  This  took  Darmstadt  by  storm, 
and  was  repeated  for  two  years  in  every  conceivable 
version.  The  curls  I  am  sorry  to  say,  turned  into 
tight  sausages,  but  how  much  more  praktisch! 
Couldn't  the  curls  then  be  worn  at  least  three  times 
without  being  re-dressed? 

A  lorgnon  is  of  course  "Hoch  elegant,"  also  quite 
irresistibly  snorty,  if  you  are  playing  an  elderly 
Duchess  type  of  person.  If  you  read  that  tunics 
—232— 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 


are  worn  in  Paris  you  put  them  on  all  your,  gowns, 
though  they  may  be  hideously  unbecoming  to  you. 
Even  tlie  time-honoured  hat-on-the-back-of-the-head 
outline  had  to  be  renounced  one  season,  and  every 
one  peered  out  at  you  from  a  hat  or  toque  brim  al- 
most down  on  the  bridge  of  the  nose  in  front,  and 
cocked  up  in  the  back.  Unbecoming — it  was  ad- 
mitted— ,  but  "man"  did  it  in  Paris  and  should 
Darmstadt  lag  behind? 

The  problem  of  clothes  for  the  actress  is  a  terrific 
one,  and  I  think  almost  every  one  in  town  knows 
and  makes  allowances  for  this.  The  men  go  further 
astray  in  the  quest  of  fashion,  or  perhaps  it  is  that 
the  slightest  lapse  from  rigid  formality  is  so  notice- 
able in  their  dress  of  today.  In  Metz  dickeys,  or 
small  false  fronts,  were  worn  as  a  matter  of  course  in 
the  place  of  evening  shirts.  If  you  were  long  and 
the  dickey  was  short  you  stuck  a  jaunty,  flaming  silk 
handkerchief  in  your  vest  in  front,  to  hide  dangerous 
glimpses  of  Jaegers.  And  then  why  stick  slavishly 
to  the  bow  tie  of  white  cotton?  A  black  or  scarlet 
string  tie  was  distinctly  more  novel,  and  attracted  at- 
tention at  once  if  worn  with  an  otherwise  conventional 
evening  coat. 

In  Darmstadt  the  men  knew  better,  but  some  of  them 
tried  to  ape  the  officers  in  walk,  monocle,  or  hair 
brushing,  to  the  huge  delight  of  the  officers.  One 
—233— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

clever  actor  always  made  his  greatest  climax  by  sud- 
denly throwing  hack  his  coat  edge  as  he  finished  a 
"There,  what  do  you  say  to  that?"  speech,  and  so 
revealing  the  gorgeous  black  satin  lining.  This  of 
course  was  unanswerable,  and  never  failed  of  its 
effect.  You  knew  at  once  you  had  a  man  of  the 
world  before  you,  a  man  familiar  with  the  most  ex- 
clusive club  life,  valeted,  perfumed  and  manicured 
irreproachably,  and  you  succumbed  accordingly. 

The  Grand  Duke  would  sit,  lynx-eyed,  up  in  his 
box,  and  take  this  all  in.  I  always  felt  he  never 
missed  anything,  and  it  was  inspiring  to  play  to  him. 
When  his  box  was  empty  I  always  missed  this  scrutiny. 

Sometimes  one  gets  messages  that  well-known  peo- 
ple have  been  out  in  front,  and  this  knowledge,  and  the 
thought  that  some  wandering  Intendant  in  search  of 
talent  may  be  watching  you,  always  spurs  you  on  if 
you  are  tired.  Once  a  famous  Dutch  painter  saw 
me  as  Amneris.  He  was  of  course  quite  unknown  to 
me,  but  sent  me  word  later  to  say  what  pleasure  I 
had  given  him  by  recreating  in  his  mind  the  Egyptian 
silhouettes  and  colouring  he  loved.  I  had  striven  so 
hard  to  do  this,  it  was  a  great  pleasure  to  know  that  I 
had  succeeded  in  suggesting  it. 

A  dear  old  gentleman  in  town,  who  had  travelled 
much,  sent  me  many  postcards  from  Spain,  because 
my  Carmen  brought  back  to  him  his  happy  days 
—234— 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 


there.  He  sent  me  a  real  Russian  "Order"  for  my 
Orlofsky  in  "Flederraaus,"  which  I  always  afterwards 
wore  with  that  gentleman's  severe  court  dress. 
Laurel  wreaths  and  wreaths  of  heavy  silvered  leaves 
were  sent  to  me,  with  gold  lettered  inscriptions,  and 
I  kept  them  for  ages  in  my  music  room. 

During  the  last  winter  in  Darmstadt  I  went  up  to 
Berlin  to  give  a  try-out  recital.  It  was  managed  by 
the  great  Wolf  Bureau,  and  my  friend  Mr.  Femow  at 
once  took  an  interest  in  me,  which  continued  as  long 
as  I  was  in  Germany.  I  heard  of  Coenraad  von  Bos, 
and  wanted  to  have  him  play  for  me.  We  rehearsed 
the  day  before  the  concert,  and  I  soon  found  I  had 
made  another  real  friend  in  Bos.  He  said  after- 
wards, when  he  was  told  I  wanted  just  one  rehearsal 
for  a  Berlin  recital,  he  thought  to  himself  I  must  be 
either  very  bad  or  very  good.  The  truth  was  I 
could  not  get  a  longer  leave  of  absence  from  the 
opera  and  so  riiore  than  one  rehearsal  was  impossi- 
ble. I  have  always  adored  rehearsing,  especially  for 
a  concert,  with  such  an  artist  as  Bos  to  play  for  me, 
and  one  of  the  greatest  joys  of  my  life  was  preparing 
a  program  with  Erich  Wolf  for  a  later  Berlin  recital. 
To  go  back  to  my  concert — Bos  worked  very  hard  that 
evening  to  make  it  a  success,  calling  up  all  of  his 
musical  friends  to  tell  them  of  his  new  find.  It  was 
a  great  success  and  I  have  never  read  such  notices  as 
—235— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

I  received  from  all  the  papers.  They  told  me  no 
foreigner  had  ever  had  such  unanimous  and  extraordi- 
nary praise  for  a  first  recital,  and  Papa  Fernow  kissed 
me  in  the  green  room. 

I  should  have  immediately  followed  up  that  con- 
cert with  two  or  three  more,  but  I  was  obliged  to 
return  to  my  duties,  and  so  lost  the  opportunity  of 
reaping  the  reward  of  an  unusual  beginning. 

They  wanted  me  to  sign  on  in  Darmstadt,  but  I 
felt  that  I  had  sung  the  repertoire  faithfully  for 
three  years,  and  that  I  wanted  more  worlds  to  con- 
quer, and  a  bigger  town  to  criticize  my  work. 

I  went  to  Munich  to  sing  for  Baron  S ,  who 

liked  me  and  offered  me  a  contract,  depending  on 
the  outcome  of  two  Gastspiele,  or  guest  performances, 
to  be  absolved  the  following  October,  my  contract 
then  to  go  into  eflfect. 

My  farewell  in  Darmstadt  was  "Carmen"  and  the 
people  were  good  to  me.  After  the  last  curtain  I 
left  the  stage  for  a  minute,  and  when  I  came  back 
to  take  my  calls  the  stage  was  filled  from  side  to 
side  with  flowers;  they  were  banked  and  grouped 
all  round  me.  The  curtain  then  went  up  and  down  in- 
numerable times,  till  I  felt  like  weeping  at  leaving 
all  these  kind  friends.  For  some  reason  my  cab  did 
not  come  for  me  and  when  I  left  the  theatre  the  crowd 
waiting  at  the  stage  door  followed  me  home,  calling 
—236— 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 


out  "Come  back  soon,"  "Auf  Wiedersehen,"  and 
many  kind  things.  These  are  not  perhaps  great 
triumphs,  but  they  make  an  artist's  life  very  happy, 
and  the  life  I  led  for  those  three  years,  comes  very 
near  being  the  ideal  one  for  an  opera  singer. 

I  think  it  was  two  years  before  this,  on  returning 
to  Paris,  that  I  took  part  in  Strauss'  "Salome."  We 
gave  six  performances  at  the  Chatelet.  I  took  the 
page's  small  part,  just  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  so  as  to 
study  the  opera.  The  stage  manager  was  a  German 
of  course,  and  spoke  very  little  French.  The  singers 
were  all  Germans,  and  tlie  "figurants,"  supers,  all 
French.  Things  did  not  go  well  at  rehearsals.  Bur- 
rian,  as  the  King  would  cry  for  wine  or  grapes,  and 
no  one  moved  to  get  what  he  wished,  as  no  one  un- 
derstood what  he  was  saying,  and  so  could  not  get 
the  musical  cue.  I  was  the  only  person  able  to  speak 
the  two  languages  fluently,  and  finally  the  stage  man- 
ager asked  me  to  take  charge  of  all  the  business  on 
my  side  of  the  stage.  **Suivez  Madame!'*  he  would 
yell.  So  I  said  "Remove  throne."  "Bring  golden 
vessels."  "Clear  stage,"  etc.,  to  the  intelligent  crowd 
of  supers,  many  of  whom  were  young  actors,  who 
wanted  as  I  did  to  study  the  opera.  I  remember  one 
hideous  little  girl,  who  had  an  unattractive  sore  lip. 
Some  one  told  her  that  it  did  not  matter  much,  trying 
to  comfort  her,  as  she  seemed  so  depressed  about  it, 
—237— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

but  she  was  inconsolable,  and  replied  darkly,  "it 
was  always  seven  days  lost."  This  brave  effort  to 
create  the  impression  of  an  otherwise  lurid  existence 
deceived  no  one  however,  though  they  were  too  polite 
to  show  their  doubt. 

Destinn's  voice  rose  thrillingly  in  the  love  phrases 
that  Salome  pours  at  John;  and  though  she  wore  a 
costume  that  my  young  French  friends  considered  con- 
sisted chiefly  of  chats  enrages, — mad  cats, — as  it 
had  two  huge  animal  heads  of  gold,  where  such  types 
of  stage  villainesses  are  always  heavily  protected,  the 
tense  quality  of  her  voice,  and  the  simple  strength 
of  her  acting  suited  the  character  as  Strauss  had 
painted  it  with  his  music,  and  she  achieved  results 
that  no  other  singer  I  know  of  could  have  done. 

I  had  gone  back  as  usual  to  de  Reszke  to  have  my 
voice  put  in  order,  and  was  having,  at  the  same  time, 
my  taste  put  in  order  by  my  sculptor  brother  Cecil,  in 
our  walks  and  talks  about  Paris  and  its  museums. 
My  brother's  wonderfully  clear  vision  of  art  and 
beauty  is  never  clouded,  and  I  owe  much  to  my  asso- 
ciation with  him.  We  used  to  go  to  all  the  Salons, 
and  I  remember  \'ividly  the  first  time  we  stumbled  on 
a  specimen  of  the  modem  Spanish  school,  then  quite 
new  to  us.  We  had  looked  at  dreary  wastes  of  rasp- 
berry jam  Venuses,  resting  on  the  crests  of  most 
solid  waves,  dozens  of  canvases  still  in  the  Louis  XVI 
—238— 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 


era,  and  much  pastel-coloured  mediocrity,  when  sud- 
denly I  called  out  "Look,  Cec,  something  new!"  It 
was  a  big  square  of  flaming  colour — women  and  a 
child  in  red  checked  cotton,  picking  scarlet  tomatoes 
from  high-trained  vines,  in  the  brilliant  sun.  It 
glowed  and  fairly  zizzed  with  colour,  and  had  that 
radiating,  vibrating  quality  that  things  have  in  the 
hot  sunshine.  We  had  had  the  "confetti"  and  "spot" 
types  of  work  for  some  years,  but  this  canvas  dwarfed 
anything  modem  I  had  seen  in  Paris.  We  have  never 
found  another  one  by  the  same  man,  and  have  often 
wondered  what  became  of  his  work. 

I  think  that  was  when  I  first  fell  in  love  with  colour 
per  se,  though  I  had  flirted  with  it  before.  We  had 
loved  Monet  and  the  opalescent,  shimmering  lights 
in  his  water-garden  series,  but  never  had  I  been  so 
stirred  and  thrilled  by  mere  paint  on  canvas  as  I 
was  by  this  Spaniard's  work.  It  seems  that  a  man 
only  rarely  can  put  colours  together  that  will  have 
the  living  dazzling  look  that  one  sees  in  nature. 
Matisse  was  a  past  master  of  it,  and  even  though  one 
might  not  agree  witli  him  otherwise,  his  colour  was  a 

joy- 
Later  the  Cubists  and   Futurists   invaded   Paris. 

When  I  am  with  Cecil  and  he  talks  to  me  of  their  work, 

I  see  their  aims  quite  clearly,  and  understand  what 

they  are  trying  to  express,  for  their  "line  of  talk"  is 

—239— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

much  more  lucid  than  their  work:  but  when  I  am  not 
with  my  brother  I  must  confess  my  understanding  is 
dimmed,  and  I  forget  the  arguments  he  used. 

We  lived  very  simply  in  Paris,  having  our  meals 
sometimes  at  the  quartier  restaurants,  and  sometimes 
getting  filets  of  fresh  mushrooms,  peas,  and  delicious 
Paris  potatoes,  with  big  strawberries  shaped  like  little 
whisk-brooms,  and  crime  d'  Isigny  in  its  stubby  little 
earthen  pots,  and  preparing  them  at  home.  I  had  a 
small  apartment  in  the  same  house  as  my  mother, 
and  my  brother  had  his  studio  some  blocks  from  us. 

We  met  Spaniards,  Norwegians,  French,  anything 
but  Americans,  of  whom  we  know  but  few — we  learnt 
so  much  more  through  talking  with  people  of  other 
nationalities  than  our  own.  Paris  is  such  a  marvel- 
lous place  for  development.  As  my  brother  said,  he 
never  knew  when  some  one  whose  opinion  he  must 
respect  might  not  drop  into  the  studio,  and  give  his 
work  a  searching  inspection.  Tlie  atmosphere  of 
having  to  keep  constantly  at  your  very  best  because 
of  tlie  rigid  intellectual  criticism  you  encounter  at 
every  turn,  is  most  stimulating. 

Rembrandt  Bugatti  was  a  great  friend  of  my  broth- 
er's, of  whom  I  think  he  was  really  fond,  and  this  was 
a  priceless  association  for  a  young  student.  Bugatti 
was  a  genius,  unrivalled  by  any  other  man  of  his 
age,  and  very  few  of  any  other  age,  and  his  tragic 
—240— 


THE  GLORY  OF  COLOUR 


death  is  a  great  loss  to  the  art  world.  His  growing 
deafness  and  his  acute  sensitiveness  must  have  made 
life  impossible  for  him.  His  recollection  of  the 
happy  years  spent  in  Antwerp,  when  he  and  my 
brother  were  well-known  figures  there — wearing  long, 
swinging,  dark  blue,  Italian  cavalry  capes,  smoking 
eternal  pipes  and  working  all  day  in  the  open  air  in 
the  Zoo — compared  to  what  the  Germans  have  made 
of  Belgium,  proved  too  great  a  spiritual  burden  for 
him. 


—241— 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ROYAL   HUMOUR 

DURING  that  summer  Baron  S died  in 
Munich.  This  of  course  was  a  great  blow  to 
me  and  I  did  not  know  what  I  could  do  about 
my  contract.  I  went  to  Berlin  to  see  Herr  Harder, 
who  told  me  I  must  gastieren  according  to  contract 
in  October,  but  as  the  new  Intendant  was  not  to  come 
into  oifice  till  November,  no  one  could  really  engage 
me,  especially  as  a  very  exacting  new  musical  di- 
rector was  coming  from  Vienna  later  in  the  season, 
and  they  would  both  undoubtedly  want  to  choose  their 
own  first  contralto. 

However,  I  went  and  sang  under  trying  circum- 
stances, with  a  very  sore  throat  and  a  sinking  heart. 
The  colleagues  thought  I  would  be  engaged,  but  I 
did  not  see  who  was  to  do  it,  and  as  it  turned  out  I 
was  right — and  there  was  no  one  to  do  it.  This  de- 
pressed me  extremely,  but  I  resolved  to  return  to 
Berlin,  and  devote  the  year  to  following  up  my 
previous  recital.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  apparent 
blow  turned  out  to  be  all  for  the  best,  as  so  often 
—242— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


happens,  for  otherwise  I  should  have  been  caught  in 
Germany  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  and  my  career 
upset,  which  happened  to  several  other  girls. 

The  concert  field  is  a  rich  one  in  Europe  and  I  had 
made  a  good  beginning.  I  booked  a  tour  in  Holland, 
through  the  kindly  offices  of  Bos,  where  I  was  as  well 
received  as  I  had  been  in  Berlin.  The  critics  wrote 
such  eulogies  that  I  almost  blush  to  read  them.  Peo- 
ple quite  unknown  to  me  would  go  from  town  to  town 
to  hear  me,  and  I  would  see  them  at  Rotterdam  or 
Utrecht  -smiling  up  at  me.  I  have  never  sung  to  such 
adorable  audiences.  They  seem  to  understand  all 
languages,  and  a  "Claire  de  Lune"  sung  in  French 
seems  to  please  them  as  much  as  Schubert's  magnifi- 
cent "Allmacht." 

The  "coffee  pause"  half  way  down  the  program, 
was  quite  a  shock  to  me  the  first  night,  but  I  soon 
grew  to  look  for  it,  and  enjoyed  the  smell  of  the 
strong  smoking  coffee  the  waiters  used  to  carry  round 
on  trays  to  the  audience.  It  was  rather  disturbing, 
however,  to  have  to  watch  the  waiters  finish  up  the 
contents  of  the  pots,  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  while  I 
began  on  the  second  half  of  the  program.  Evidently 
to  them  the  coffee,  and  the  audience,  were  of  first  im- 
portance, and  the  mere  singer  quite  secondary;  all  of 
which  is  point  of  view. 

My  sister  and  I  lived  at  The  Hague,  and  Holland 
—243— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

is  so  delightfully  small  that  we  could  nearly  always 
return  there,  after  the  evening's  concert  in  another 
town.  I  went  back  in  the  spring  for  another  series 
of  recitals  and  felt  that  I  was  returning  to  old  friends. 
I  was  offered  a  tour  to  Java,  and  would  love  to  have 
undertaken  it,  but  could  not  see  my  way  clear  just 
then. 

In  December  I  was  in  Berlin  for  a  week  or  two,  and 
Harder  sent  me  word  to  come  and  sing  for  Mr.  Percy 
Pitt  of  Covent  Garden.  The  two  contracts  I  had  held 
so  far  had  been  closed  with  a  minimum  of  delay  and 
trouble,  and  now  I  was  to  make  the  biggest  one  of 
my  career  in  the  same  simple  way.  I  was  not  in  the 
best  of  voice  when  I  sang  for  Mr.  Pitt,  but  I  sang  the 
Siegfried  Erda,  and  was  disgusted  with  myself  for 
singing  so  badly.  He  asked  me  if  I  were  ready  to 
sing  the  list  of  leading  roles  which  he  read  to  me, 
and  on  my  answering  in  the  affirmative  engaged  me  on 
the  spot;  proving,  to  me  at  least,  that  successful  or 
unsuccessful  Vorsingen  and  even  Gastspiele  have  very 
little  to  do  with  most  engagements.  In  the  case  of  a 
singer  of  any  reputation  at  all,  the  Director  has 
usually  made  up  his  mind  pretty  well  beforehand 
what  he  is  going  to  do.  If  he  wants  you  he  takes 
you,  even  if  you  have  sung  badly  that  particular  time, 
and  if  he  does  not  want  you,  nothing  that  I  have 
heard  of  can  make  him  engage  you. 
—244— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


This  contract  was  for  the  following  spring.  We 
were  to  give  the  "Ring"  of  Wagner,  three  times,  and 
Arthur  Nikisch  was  to  conduct.  Also  "Koenigskin- 
der"  was  to  be  given  for  the  first  time  at  Covent 
Garden,  and  I  was  one  of  the  few  who  had  sung  tlie 
Witch  at  that  time.  "The  Flying  Dutchman"  com- 
pleted the  list  of  operas  I  was  to  sing  in. 

After  closing  the  contract  we  left  for  Bergen,  Nor- 
way, where  I  had  a  concert  engagement.  One  great 
advantage  of  having  my  dear  friends,  tlie  Jones,  back 
of  me,  was,  that  I  could  take  a  big  journey  like  this; 
and  though  it  might  eat  up  all  of  my  profit  I  did  not 
have  to  refuse  it  on  that  account. 

We  were  fascinated  by  Scandinavia,  and  though  I 
went  to  sing  with  the  orchestra  in  one  concert  only,  I 
remained  in  Bergen  to  give  three  recitals  by  myself. 
The  trip  across  the  Finse  railway,  over  the  snowy 
glaciers,  I  shall  never  forget.  The  line  had  only 
recently  been  opened,  and  very  few  passengers  shared 
the  trip  with  us.  We  saw  a  herd  of  reindeer,  and  I 
fed  some  of  them  with  coarse  salt  at  one  of  the  sta- 
tions. Bergen  itself  was  warm  and  muggy  and  smelt 
of  fish.  Everything  in  the  place  smelt  of  fish,  even 
the  hotel  towels.  Two  kindly  women  managers  took 
charge  of  my  concerts,  and  I  felt  far  away  from 
America  till  I  saw  a  portrait  of  Miss  Emma  Thursby 
in  their  music  shop. 

—245— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

The  warm-hearted  Norwegians  were  delightful  to 
us,  and  we  met  many  of  Grieg's  relations,  and  heard 
tales  of  him.  One  of  his  cousins,  I  think,  came  all 
the  way  to  Berlin  to  study  with  me,  but  to  my  great 
regret  I  had  no  time  to  give  her. 

I  was  interviewed  on  my  first  day  by  a  nice  little 
fellow,  who  could  hardly  speak  German,  and  no  Eng- 
lish nor  French.  Our  conversation  was  conducted 
under  difficulties,  but  was  most  enjoyable  none  the 
less.  The  next  day  I  received  a  request  for  a  photo 
from  him,  with  a  card  saying:  "'Seit  ich  Ihnen 
sah  bin  ich  sterblich  verliebt." — This  bad  German 
means  approximately,  "Since  I  saw  you  I  am  mortally 
in  love." 

We  loved  our  stay  in  Scandinavia.  I  remember 
when  we  first  arrived  in  Christiania  we  could  not 
make  out  why  the  streets  were  thronged  with  good 
looking  men  and  women,  from  two  o'clock  till  three 
in  the  afternoon,  and  quite  empty  after  that.  We 
walked  through  the  snowy,  glittering  avenues,  and  met 
all  these  healthy  red-cheeked  pedestrians  talking  and 
laughing  and  having  a  wonderful  social  time.  We 
then  discovered  their  meal  times  are  quite  different 
from  ours.  You  have  an  early  cup  of  coffee,  then  a 
light  breakfast  at  eleven  o'clock,  then  dinner  at  three 
or  four,  preceded  sometimes  by  this  walk.  Supper  is 
served  at  eight-thirty  or  nine,  and  is  usually  laid  out 
—246— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


on  a  long  table  in  the  centre  of  tlie  room.  There 
are  cold  meats  and  salads;  cold  fish  and  pickled  fish; 
queer  breads;  and,  of  course,  you  go  first  for  the 
wonderful  hors  d'ceuvres  of  countless  varieties,  for 
this  is  where  they  grow. 

A  Swede  once  told  me  you  could  always  tell  a  Ger- 
man travelling  in  Sweden,  because  when  the  Schwed- 
ische  Platte  or  hors  d'ceuvres  were  passed  to  him,  he 
made  a  meal  of  the  dainty  mayonnaise  and  savoury 
morsels,  instead  of  eating  them  as  an  appetizer,  as  is 
intended.  In  the  beautiful  station  of  Copenhagen, 
decorated  in  the  old  Norse  style,  with  scarlet-painted 
wooden  carved  beams,  we  were  served  with  all  we 
could  eat  of  these  dainties  witli  bread  and  butter,  for 
about  forty  cents — and  I  wished  I  were  a  German! 

On  the  way  home,  we  were  storm-bound  at  Copen- 
hagen, and  I  at  once  fell  in  love  with  that  city,  and  its 
wonderful  blond  race  of  big  men  and  women.  We 
heard  stories  of  divorces  and  passionate  love  affairs, 
that  made  other  nations  pale  by  contrast.  One  de- 
lightful man  told  us  he  had  had  no  objection  to  his 
wife  having  one  lover,  but  when  he  found  she  had 
seven,  he  thought  it  time  to  get  a  divorce!  He  still 
quite  often  saw  her,  and  said  they  were  the  best  friends 
in  the  world.  He  liked  to  take  her  out  to  dinner  and 
the  theatre  and  tell  her  all  about  everything.  He 
called  us  "The  Misses  Chickens  Howard,"  and  was 
—247— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 


only  restrained  by  business  engagements  from  fol- 
lowing us  from  place  to  place.  That  was  a  hobby  of 
his,  he  said,  when  he  found  a  sympathetic  artist. 

We  crossed  back  to  Germany,  and  I  sang  with 
Nickisch  for  the  first  time,  in  Hamburg.  His  room 
behind  the  stage  swarmed  with  ladies,  in  the  entr'acte, 
and  the  concert  master  told  me  it  was  always  so.  A 
valet  looked  him  over  carefully  before  he  went  on 
the  stage,  pulled  down  his  coat,  and  patted  the  Herr 
Professor's  shoulders.  I  remembered  the  cuff  story 
in  Metz  and  watched  through  the  crack  of  the  door 
to  see  if  it  still  held  good — and  it  did! 

Later  I  sang  with  Mengelberg  in  Frankfort.  He 
said  to  me,  eating  apples  the  while:  "I  engaged 
you  because  friends  of  mine  in  Holland  told  me  you 
could  sing.  Can  you?"  After  the  concert  he  came 
to  me  again,  still  eating  apples,  and  said:  '^Es  is 
wahr.  Sie  haben  eine  Prachtvolle  Stimme,  und 
koennen  prachtvoll  singen,'"  and  kissed  my  hand. 

To  hear  Mengelberg  direct  "Tod  und  Verklaerung" 
of  Strauss,  with  his  own  orchestra  is  one  of  the  most 
tremendous  things  I  have  ever  experienced.  One  is 
transported.  A  little  man  with  a  tight  mouth  and  an 
aureole  of  fair  hair,  he  is  feared  by  his  men,  but 
how  he  is  respected!  That  winter  he  spent  almost 
every  night  in  the  train,  as  he  conducted  regularly  in 
Holland,  Germany  and  Russia. 
—248— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


I  have  always  been  able  to  get  on  with  really  great 
musicians,  and  have  found  only  the  second  best  diffi- 
cile and  small.  The  path  seems  suddenly  smooth 
when  in  rehearsal,  you  feel  this  weahh  of  absolute 
knowlege  and  authority  supporting,  leading  and  in- 
spiring you.  Anxiety  vanishes  and  one's  best  pours 
from  one  without  effort,  only  with  the  sensation  of 
wringing  every  last  drop  of  beauty  from  the  phrase. 

We  returned  to  Sweden  to  concerts  with  Stenham- 
mer,  and  I  should  have  crossed  to  Helsingfors  to  sing 
Dalila,  but  had  to  return  on  account  of  engagements 
in  Germany. 

Through  our  forbears,  as  I  have  said,  we  have 
many  relations  in  Germany;  and  in  Berlin  we  enjoyed 

immensely  knowing  our  cousins  the  von   M s. 

The  General  had  just  been  moved  back  to  Berlin  to 
fill  an  extremely  high  military  position,  and  as  he 
was  musical  we,  of  course,  had  much  in  common. 
The  daughters  were  all  beautifully  brought  up;  simple 
girls,  frank  and  natural  as  German  aristocrats  are. 
They  gave  a  musical,  at  which  the  General  and  I  both 
sang.  Their  apartment  was  very  large,  but  was  so 
crowded  for  the  concert  that  I  felt  as  though  the 
Duchess  of  Dalibor  sat  abnost  in  my  throat  as  I  sang, 
and  her  enormous  pearls  distracted  me  in  the 
"Sapphische  Ode."  I  have  never  seen  such  unbeliev- 
ably huge  pearls.  We  were  asked  to  stay  to  Abend- 
—249— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

essen  after  the  concert,  and  it  consisted  chiefly  of  the 
sandwiches  and  refreshments  left  over  from  the  party. 
This  showed  us  again  the  absolute  simplicity  of  the 
well-born  German  of  irreproachable  position. 

The  girls  were  very  intimate  with  the  Kaiser's  only 
daughter,  Princess  Victoria  Louise,  and  when  her 
marriage  to  the  Duke  of  Brunswick's  son,  was  cele- 
brated, Irma  was  one  of  the  bride's-maids.  Onkle 
Geo,  as  we  called  him,  told  us  about  the  Kaiser,  to 
whom  he  was  devoted.  At  the  dinner  table,  he  said, 
His  Majesty  would  usually  talk  only  with  the  men 
present,  ignoring  completely  the  ladies  who  might  be 
present. 

When  the  General  made  his  re-entry  into  court  for 
the  first  time  after  receiving  his  high  office,  all  the 
courtiers  present  watched  to  see  just  how  he  would 
be  received  by  His  Majesty,  which  would  then  give  the 
keynote  for  his  treatment  by  the  whole  court.  After 
the  general  reception.  General  von  M was  in- 
vited to  go  into  a  more  private  room  with  several  more 
gentlemen.  This  promised  well,  as  it  was  in  this 
room  that  the  Kaiser  talked  more  intimately  with  the 
guests  of  his  choosing. 

The  General  held  his  helmet  with  its  Feder-husch, 
or  crest  of  white  feathers  on  his  arm,  and  felt  the  eyes 
of  all  assembled  on  him  as  the  Kaiser  came  quickly 
—250— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


into  the  room,  and  made  his  way  to  him.  Now  was 
the  critical  moment  that  might  have  everlasting  con- 
sequences. Onkle  Geo  confessed  to  nervousness,  but 
His  Majesty  guessed  the  situation,  and  said,  "Hum! 
You  need  a  new  helmet,  that  Feder-busch  is  shabby," 
in  a  bantering  tone.  The  courtiers  knew  this  was 
meant  for  friendly,  humorous  comment,  and  was  in- 
tended to  be  laughed  at,  so  they  laughed  accordingly 
at  Onkle  Geo's  confusion,  and  the  ice  was  broken. 
"And  my  helmet  was  quite  new!"  said  Onkle  Geo,  half 
indignantly,  half  laughing. 

The  court  was  very  simple,  and  we  heard  stories  of 
this  through  other  friends  who  had  the  entree.     A 

Graefin  D ,  returning  one  evening  from  a  court 

ball  given  in  honor  of  the  then  Regent  of  Bavaria,  gave 
me  a  bon-bon  done  up  in  silver  paper,  with  a  little 
photo  of  the  Kaiserin  on  it.  The  bon-bon  was  white, 
and  tlie  Graefin  said  as  long  as  any  one  could  remem- 
ber, these  had  been  the  official  souvenirs  of  court 
dinners:  only  the  photo  varied. 

One  charming  girl  we  knew,  a  great  favourite  of  the 
Empress,  came  back  from  the  Palace  one  Christmas 
day,  and  told  us  what  she  had  received  from  Her 
Majesty  as  a  Christmas  greeting — a  small,  old-fash- 
ioned tippet  and  muff  of  woolly  white  Angora,  and 
two  small,  cheap  Japanese  vases,  that  some  one  had 
—251— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

given  the  Empress  the  year  before.  The  Royal  mag- 
nificence one  would  expect  gave  way  to — extreme  sim- 
plicity let  us  call  it. 

The  Kaiser  took  a  keen  interest  in  the  opera,  and 
gave  wonderful  presents  to  his  favourite  singers. 
We  saw  a  spectacle  at  the  opera  house  that  he  was 
supposed  to  have  inspired,  and  which  was  carried  out 
under  his  direction.  It  was  a  sort  of  panorama  of 
scenes  in  Corfu,  where  he  spent  much  time.  It  must 
have  been  horribly  expensive,  for  I  never  saw  so 
much  scenery  at  any  performance,  and  it  really  was 
exquisite  to  see  those  beautifully  reproduced  scenes 
unfold  before  one. 

Such  things,  however,  as  painted  castles  and  woods 
and  flowers  always  seem  to  me  excessively  naive. 
The  Russian  idea  of  a  wonderful  imaginative  back- 
drop is  infinitely  more  stimulating  to  a  performance. 
Of  course,  there  are  places  where  it  cannot  be  used. 
If  the  scene  is  laid  in  a  Childs'  restaurant  a  back-drop 
might  perhaps  be  comic  to  a  mind  not  yet  used  to 
making  its  own  pictures;  but  I  hope  and  believe  the 
aim  is  towards  simplicity  in  this  direction;  but  the 
simplicity  must  be  carried  out  by  artists,  and  first-rate 
ones.  Who,  who  has  seen  the  leaping  figures  of  the 
Russian  Ballet  in  "Prince  Igor,"  has  felt  a  lack  on  the 
scenic  side  because  the  tents  with  their  feather  of 
smoke  were  suggested  on  a  flat  back-drop?  Who 
—252— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


longed  for  real,  that  is,  one-side  real,  tents — with 
steam  escaping  from  a  semi-hidden  pipe  through  the 
top?  The  luridness  was  suggested  by  colour  far  more 
skilfully  tlian  if  rocks,  thinly  swaying  and  lit  by  red 
lights,  had  cluttered  up  the  wings.  Make  the  au- 
dience do  the  thinking,  blend  stimulation  with  simu- 
lation, and  if  your  artist  has  been  a  true  one  no  one 
will  cry  for  flapping  pillars,  or  crumpled  leaves  on  a 

net. 

"Boris  Goudonow,"  as  it  used  to  be  given  at  the 
Metropolitan,  is  a  good  example  of  what  real  artist 
vision  can  do  with  colour.  Those  who  saw  those 
figures  in  brilliant  green,  kneeling  with  their  backs  to 
the  audience,  barring  off"  the  procession  scene,  while 
the  towering  minaret  of  the  cathedral  carried  the  eye 
up  and  up  at  the  back,  will  surely  never  forget  the 
light  and  shade  grouping.  It  has  since,  I  am  sorry 
to  say,  lost  some  of  its  skilful  arrangement,  which  I 
suppose  is  unavoidable,  but  the  performance  is  still 
homogeneous  and  a  unit,  as  to  decors,  score  and  cos- 
tumes. 

It  was  on  the  Kaiser's  birthday  that  we  saw 
"Corfu,"  and  afterwards  we  went  to  the  newly-opened 
Hotel  Esplanade  for  supper.  I  have  never  seen  such 
a  sight.  All  imaginable  uniforms  were  there,  on  all 
types  of  officers  and  foreign  diplomats.  Some  looked 
magnificently  romantic,  and  some  as  if  they  had 
—253— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

stepped  from  the  comic  opera  stage.  The  women,  as 
usual  in  Germany,  though  plentifully  be-jewelled, 
looked  dull  and  inadequate  beside  the  men. 

One  summer  night  in  Berlin,  we  went  to  Max  Rein- 
hardt's  small  theatre,  the  Kammerspiel,  to  see 
"Fruehlingserwachen."  My  dear  friend,  Oscar  Saen- 
ger,  was  in  town,  and  I  had  happened  to  see  him  in  a 
box  at  the  opera  the  evening  before.  He  had  come 
to  see  Berger,  the  giant  baritone  whom  he  had  trans- 
formed into  a  tenor,  in  his  first  performance  of  Sieg- 
mund.  I  think  Putnam  Griswold,  that  splendid  type 
of  the  best  American  singer,  sang  the  Wanderer  that 
night.  Saenger  asked  us  to  go  to  the  theatre  with 
him,  as  we  had  not  met  in  years,  and  by  chance  we 
chose  "Fruehlingserwachen"  of  Wedekind.  Never 
shall  I  forget  that  evening.  The  quiet,  dark  wooden 
walls  of  the  theatre,  and  the  comfortable  box  they 
showed  us  into,  in  which  we  sat,  seeing  but  unseen  in 
the  obccurity;  the  lack  of  applause  when  the  curtain 
fell,  and  then — the  performance.  German  actors 
lead  the  world,  in  my  opinion,  and  the  intensity  of 
those  players,  the  skill  with  which  they  played  those 
most  unhappy  children,  the  tremulous,  inadequate 
mother,  that  dark  scene  with  its  girl-women  shriek,  left 
us  breat^^ess  and  dazed. 

The  highest  possible  tribute  I  pay  to  German  actors, 
and  to  some  of  those  gathered  together  that  winter  in 
—254— 


ROYAL  HUMOUR 


that  theatre.  Such  a  Falstaff  I  never  saw  as  we  saw 
there  in  "Henry  V,"  nor  such  marvellous  presenta- 
tions of  Shakespeare.  Moissy  as  Prince  Hal  in  his 
father's  deathbed  scene;  the  Doll  Tear  sheet;  the  col- 
lection of  hangers-on  in  the  Inn  Scene,  the  understand- 
ing of  the  spirit  of  Shakespeare — all  these  were  price- 
less joys.  Shakespeare  does  not  spell  bankruptcy  in 
Germany,  and  the  people  really  love  it,  and  perhaps 
there  is  a  reason  why. 

The  next  night  in  the  same  house,  you  might  see  a 
translation  of  a  French  drawingroom  comedy.  With 
tlie  exception  of  one  or  two,  these  people  were  quite 
as  at  home  in  that  as  in  classic  drama.  That  I  had 
never  believed  possible  till  I  saw  it  proven.  It  had 
always  seemed  to  me  that  the  French  were  absolutely 
unrivalled  in  such  things  as  "Mile.  Georgette,  ma 
femme";  but  they  were  even  more  sincerely,  yet  just 
as  lightly  done  by  Reinhardt's  people.  It  was  always 
such  a  joy  in  Europe  to  go  to  the  theatre  in  London, 
Paris  or  Berlin.  To  see  Lavalliere  with  her  in- 
imitable gamine  ways,  was  the  most  delicious  of  pleas- 
ures; and  the  polish  of  the  older  actors  of  the  French 
stage,  the  Marquis  or  Marquise,  or  old  butler  or  house- 
keeper, as  the  case  may  be,  is  a  wonderful  model  for 
the  student.  French  actors  seem  to  be  able  to  come 
into  a  room,  sit  down  at  a  table  and  talk  for  half  an 
hour,  using  almost  no  gestures,  without  becoming  in 
—255— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

the  least  boresome  or  monotonous.  When  scenes  of 
strong  passion  are  wanted,  the  Germans,  I  think,  excel 
their  French  rivals.  A  Frenchman,  or,  for  that  mat- 
ter, any  Latin,  is  inclined  to  rant  just  a  bit,  and  be- 
come unconvincing,  at  least  to  an  Anglo-Saxon  mind; 
but  the  German,  when  called  upon  for  strength  and 
power  of  passion,  rises  thrillingly  and  gloriously,  and 
completely  sweeps  you  away. 

Even  in  Darmstadt  we  had  many  notable  per- 
formances. That  of  the  "Versunkene  Glocke,"  for 
instance,  was  most  memorable.  We  had  a  splendid 
old  actor  for  the  Well  Spirit,  Nickelmann,  and  noth- 
ing could  have  been  wetter  or  more  unearthy  than  his 
sloshing  slowly  up  from  the  depth  of  the  well,  his 
webbed,  greenish  fingers  appearing  clutchingly  first, 
and  then  his  grating,  fishy  croak,  "R-r-r-rautendelein! 
R-r-r-r-rautendelein!"  The  faun  was  also  excellently 
done  by  a  young  fellow  with  marvellous  faun-like 
agility;  altogether  these  unpretentious  people  realized 
the  fairy-tale  spirit,  the  wood  feeling  of  the  story,  in 
a  most  imaginative,  subtle  way.  Where  in  America 
in  a  town  of  Darmstadt's  size  could  you  see  such  a 
performance? 


—256— 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

COVENT  GARDEN  AND — AMERICA 

IN  due  time  we  set  out  for  London.  One  of  our 
cousins  had  found  us  delightful  diggings  in 
M Street,  which  I  was  able  to  enjoy,  as  dear 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones  sent  me  an  extra  cheque  to  im- 
press London  with.  We  were  waited  upon  by  an  old 
butler,  and  his  wife  did  the  cooking.  Such  legs  of 
lamb,  and  deep  plum  tarts,  with  lashings  of  clotted 
cream!  Such  snowy  napery,  and  silver  polished  as 
only  English  butlers  can  polish  it. 

It  was  not  by  any  means  my  first  visit  to  London, 
professionally.  I  had  sung  in  private  drawing- 
rooms  in  previous  seasons,  and  had  also  given  a  re- 
cital. Her  Royal  Highness  Princess  Christian  of 
Schleswig-Holstein,  and  her  daughter.  Princess  Vic- 
toria, graciously  consented  to  be  my  patronesses  at 
this  concert.  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  how  to  ar- 
range for  them,  after  they  had  kindly  consented  to  be 
present,  but  I  gathered  that  a  special  pair  of  com- 
fortable chairs  must  be  put  directly  below  the  stage, 
with  a  little  table.  Then  I  thought  "Flowers  or  no 
—257— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

flowers?"  I  should  have  loved  to  send  them,  but 
English  Royalties  are  so  simple  and  natural  I  in- 
stinctively felt  that  any  ostentation  would  be  distaste- 
ful. Somehow  one  hates  to  do  the  wrong  thing  in  the 
presence  of  Personages;  it  is  an  un-American  feeling, 
but  a  human  one. 

They  applauded  me  a  great  deal,  and  after  a  bow 
of  acknowledgment  to  the  nice  audience  I  gave  the 
Princesses  each  time  an  English,  straight-up-and-down 
curtsey,  and  I  hope  that  was  right.  In  Germany  a 
back-swaying,  one-toe-pointed-in-front  curtsey  was  de- 
manded. These  things  are  at  once  trivial  and  vastly 
important. 

The  decent  getting  Their  Royal  Highnesses  in  and 
out  of  the  hall  I  left  to  the  capable  manager,  to  whom 
Princess  Christian  said  as  she  passed,  "She  ought  to 
be  singing  in  Covent  Garden."     I  very  soon  was. 

I  was  rather  nervous  at  the  beginning  at  Covent 
Garden.  Most  of  the  others  were  so  famous,  and 
all  of  them  so  much  older  than  I.  However,  I  soon 
got  recognition  and  they  were  all  very  nice  to  me. 
I  enjoyed  especially  talking  to  Van  Rooy.  He  told 
me  all  about  the  wonderful  armour  he  wore  in  the 
"Ring."  Never  have  I  seen  his  equal  as  the  Wan- 
derer. As  he  himself  said,  the  old  line  of  singers, 
the  giants,  the  de  Reszkes,  Teminas,  Lehmanns  and 
Brandts,  seemed  to  have  died  out.  I  often  look  for 
—258— 


COVENT  GARDEN  AND— AMERICA 

the  grand  line,  the  dignity,  the  flowing,  noble  breadth 
of  gesture  one  saw  in  the  older  Wagnerian  singers, 
but  how  often  does  one  see  it  now?  Of  course,  my 
memories  of  them  are  those  of  a  very  young  girl,  but 
I  saw  tlie  same  thing  in  Van  Rooy,  though  his  voice 
showed  wear,  and  the  bigness  of  their  impersonations 
is  stamped  indelibly  on  my  memory,  dwarfing  the 
lesser  ones. 

Nikisch  came  for  the  last  few  rehearsals.  He  took 
that  raw,  English-sounding  orchestra,  with  its  unre- 
lated sounds  of  blaring  brass,  and  rough  strings,  and 
unified  and  dignified  it  by  his  personality,  his  work 
and  his  brain  power  till  it  produced  what  he  would 
have — Wagner  in  his  glory.  His  gestures  were  like  a 
sculptor's.  My  brother,  who  came  to  stay  with  us, 
also  noticed  this.  Nikisch  seemed  to  sculp  the 
phrases  out  of  the  air,  and  brought  home  again  to  us 
both  tlie  close  relation  between  the  lines  of  music  and 
the  lines  of  noble  sculpture.  The  Parthenon  freeze — 
is  it  not  music?  My  brother  says  the  Air  of  Bach 
is  absolutely  one  with  the  outlines  of  this  masterpiece, 
just  as  pure,  noble  and  majestically  simple,  moving 
in  slow,  stately  rhythm. 

We  gave  the  "Ring"  three  times  and  I  sang  the 

Erdas  and  Fricka  and   Waltrautes.     The  latter   in 

"Goetterdaemmerung"  I  enjoyed  doing  so  much  with 

Nikisch.     We  only  rehearsed  it  at  the  piano,  and  he 

—259— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

said  as  he  sat  down:  "Jetzt  bin  ich  neugierig. 
Entweder  kann  die  Waltraute  wunderschoen  sein, 
oder  sehr  langweilig."  ("Now  I  am  curious.  Wal- 
traute can  either  be  very  beautiful  or  very  uninterest- 
ing.")    He  did  not  find  it  langweilig  however. 

I  had  one  of  my  fits  of  depression  I  so  often  get 
after  singing,  (when  I  feel  I  must  leave  the  stage,  I 
am  so  hopelessly  bad,  and  nothing  any  one  can  do  or 
say  cheers  me  inwardly),  and  it  was  particularly 
abysmal,  the  day  after  Waltraute.  One  never  sings 
just  as  one  would  like  to,  and  in  my  head  I  hear  the 
phrase  so  much  more  beautifully  done  than  any  one 
but  Caruso  can  do  it.  That  day  I  sat  at  lunch  with  my 
faithful  Marjorie,  who  always  puts  up  with  me.  We 
were  lunching  in  a  little  place  near  us,  and  I  was  deep 
in  the  blues.  Marjorie's  eye  fell  on  the  Daily  Tele- 
graph and  we  saw  a  wonderful  criticism  by  Robin 
Legge;  just  a  few  words,  but  so  sincere  and  appre- 
ciative. It  helped  such  a  lot.  Criticism  can  mean  so 
much  to  one  for  good  or  evil.  The  thought  of  a 
cruelly  amusing  phrase  the  critic  has  coined,  unable 
to  resist  the  very  human  temptation,  will  come  winging 
to  you  the  next  time  you  step  out  on  the  stage  to  sing 
the  same  role,  and  you  feel  that  sardonic  wave  strik- 
ing you  afresh  and  jangling  your  already  quivering 
nerves.  It  takes  courage  after  that  to  go  on.  On 
the  contrary,  a  few  words  of  appreciation  of  what 
—260— 


< 


hCA 


CARUSO's    CARICATURE    OF    KATHLEEN    HOWARD 


COVENT  GARDEN  AND— .\MERICA 


you  have  tried  so  hard,  through  such  long  years,  to  do 
will  tide  you  over  many  black  hours  of  discourage- 
ment, and  you  think:     "I  can't  be  so  absolutely  rotten, 

didn't  X write  that  about  me?  and  he's  supposed 

to  know  something  about  it."  An  intelligent  con- 
structive criticism  is  the  most  helpful  thing  possible, 
and  stimulates  one  to  work  to  correct  one's  faults. 
Personal  remarks  wound  one's  feelings  deeply,  and 
one  is  obliged  to  swallow  hard  and  go  bravely  on,  but 
the  policeman's  life  is  not  a  happy  one. 

The  Royal  Opera  is  in  the  middle  of  the  vegetable 
market,  and  on  the  days  when  produce  arrives  the 
streets  are  full  of  cockney  porters.  It  was  rather 
amusing  one  day,  going  to  rehearsal.  I  was  dressed 
in  my  new  black  satin  suit  from  Paris,  and  a  smart 
little  white  hat.  A  porter  caught  sight  of  me,  pushed 
back  the  other  men  on  both  sides  of  me,  and  said, 
"Get  out  of  the  loidy's  wy,  cahn't  yer,  Bill?  That's 
roight.  Miss,  I  always  loikes  to  see  the  1yd ies  wen 
Ahm  workin',  that's  right.  Miss,  very  neat,  too." 
The  next  day  it  was  raining  and  I  was  not  so  smart, 
and  the  same  man  saw  me  and  said  with  an  air  of 
disappointment,  "Ah  don't  like  it  'aaf  so  well  as 
yisterdy,  Miss." 

I  have  often  heard  of  American  singers  who  could 
"bluff"  or  "hypnotize"  directors  into  giving  them 
chances  which  they  thought  they  were  entitled  to,  and 
—261— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

from  which  they  always  emerged  with  flying  colours. 
This  is  the  tale  of  how  I  once,  and  only  once,  tried  to 
"bluff,"  and  how  I  nearly  got  caught  at  it. 

When  the  list  of  roles  for  Covent  Garden  was  sub- 
mitted to  me  in  Berlin  I  had  actually  sung  on  the  stage 
all  of  them  but  one,  Brangaene.  I  always  found  this 
lady  so  weak,  compared  to  Isolde,  that  she  had  never 
interested  me  especially,  and  I  had  never  studied  her. 
I  decided,  however,  that  having  sung  ninety-nine  per 
cent,  of  the  roles  they  wanted  I  could  risk  the  one  per 
cent.,  Brangaene,  hoping  that  Kirkby-Lunn  would  not 
relinquish  her.  I  learned  the  role,  though,  in  record 
time  between  concert  dates,  and  trusted  to  "luck." 
The  season  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  all  the  operas 
had  passed  off  well,  when,  just  as  we  were  going  to 
dinner  one  evening,  I  was  called  to  the  'phone  and 
told  Madame  Kirby-Lunn  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill 
at  the  beginning  of  the  first  act  of  "Tristan,"  would 
probably  not  be  able  to  go  on  in  the  second,  and  would 
I  please  come  right  down  and  make  up. 

In  a  nervous  tremor,  for  Brangaene  is  not  easy 
without  orchestra  rehearsal,  and  I  was  not  quite  sure 
of  all  the  business  cues,  I  went  down,  hunted  out  some- 
thing to  wear,  put  on  my  trusty  "beauty"  wig,  hur- 
riedly went  over  the  second  act  with  an  assistant  con- 
ductor, finding  my  memory  was  standing  the  strain, 
and  then  stood  trembling  in  the  wings.  I  thought  to 
—262— 


COVENT  GARDEN  AND— AMERICA 

myself  "Nemesis!"  and  shivered.  What  I  hoped  was 
— tliat  if  Madame  really  was  going  to  have  to  give  up 
it  might  be  just  before  the  lovely  "Warnung"  be- 
hind the  scenes,  because  I  had  always  wanted  to  sing 
that. 

There  I  stood  and  the  rouge  soaked  into  my  face 
as  it  always  mysteriously  does,  when  one  is  not  at 
one's  best,  leaving  me  pale  and  anxious — a  real 
Brangaene.  Poor  Madame  Kirkby-Lunn  sang  just  as 
beautifully  as  ever  though,  but  fainted  after  the  sec- 
ond act.  I  went  into  her  dressing  room  and  offered 
to  do  the  last  bit  and  let  her  go  home  after  her  plucky 
fight.  She,  however,  said  she  realized  it  was  a  thank- 
less task  for  a  singer  to  finish  another  singer's  per- 
formance, and  that  she  would  not  think  of  asking  me 
to  do  it.  She  rested  awhile,  I  still  hovering,  as  re- 
quested by  the  management,  till  all  was  over;  and  I 
then  went  home,  more  exhausted  than  if  I  had  sung 
a  performance,  but  resolved  to  sin  no  more,  and 
thanking  my  gods  that  I  had  not  had  to  face  that  crit- 
ical assemblage  without  adequate  preparation. 

The  Italian  season  was  to  come  directly  after  ours, 
and  they  all  came  drifting  in  during  our  last  days,  to 
report  for  rehearsal.  One  day  as  I  was  up  in  my 
dressing  room,  preparing  for  a  matinee,  I  heard  a 
golden  droning  below  me,  rising  and  falling  on  half 
breath — Caruso  at  a  room  rehearsal.  Words  cannot 
—263— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

describe  the  beauty  of  it,  but  it  gave  me  exquisite 
pleasure.  A  day  or  two  later  I  was  at  the  Opera 
House  on  some  errand  and  chanced  to  hear  the  re- 
hearsal of  "Pagliacci."  Caruso  was  strolling  about 
the  stage,  beautifully  dressed  as  usual,  with  a  pale 
grey  Derby  hat,  gloves  of  wash-leather  and  light- 
coloured  cane.  The  time  came  for  his  famous  solo. 
He  stood  near  the  footlights  with  his  eyes  on  the  con- 
ductor, as  we  usually  do  when  running  over  a  familiar 
role  with  an  unfamiliar  conductor.  He  began  softly 
with  his  wonderful  effortless  stream  of  tone,  so  char- 
acteristic, and  so  impossible  of  imitation.  As  the 
music  worked  on  his  emotions,  always  just  below  the 
surface  with  this  great  artist,  his  voice  thrilled 
stronger  and  stronger  in  spite  of  him,  till  suddenly  in 
full  flood  it  poured  out  its  luscious  stream — and  one 
thanked  God  anew  for  such  a  voice. 

Covent  Garden  on  the  night  of  a  Court  ball  holds 
the  most  brilliant  audience  1  have  ever  seen.  The 
English  woman  is  at  her  best  in  evening  dress,  the 
jewels  are  fabulous  and  the  whole  aff'air  most  daz- 
zling. I  remember  one  evening  seeing  King  Manoel 
of  Portugal  in  a  box.  It  was  shortly  after  his  hasty 
flight  from  his  own  country,  and  by  an  odd  chance 
his  box  was  just  under  a  very  large  "Exit"  sign,  the 
pertinence  of  which  was  striking. 

Destinn  was  our  Senta  in  "Hollander."  She  was 
—264— 


COVENT  GARDEN  AND— AMERICA 

just  back  from  America,  and  at  rehearsal  she  had  to 
cut  out  several  portamenti  which,  she  said,  she  had 
contracted  from  the  Italians,  but  which  infuriated  the 
German  conductor.  At  die  stage  rehearsals  she  di- 
rected everything  in  accordance  with  Bayreuth  tradi- 
tion, which  attaches  the  utmost  importance  to  every 
slightest  stage  position;  and  the  other  singers  followed 
her  directions  witli  an  almost  reverent  devotion.  At 
the  performance  she  was  wonderful,  as  usual.  She 
wore  a  real  Norwegian  bridal  headdress,  a  sort  of 
basket  of  flowers.  A  Cockney  super,  on  his  way  out, 
remarked  in  passing  me,  "I  s'y?  wot  price  Destinn's 
hat?" 

It  was  strange,  coming  from  Germany,  where  every 
word  almost  is  understood  by  the  audience,  to  sing  to 
people  whose  facial  expression  did  not  respond  to  the 
text;  one  feels  diat  the  inner  meaning  of  the  words  is 
lost,  is  going  for  nothing,  and  this  leads  to  a  vague 
sense  of  irritation,  if  one  allows  the  impression  to 
dominate. 

There  were  several  young  Americans  with  us  with 
glorious  voices,  straight  from  Jean  de  Reszke's  studio. 
They  were  to  sing  the  Rheintochter,  and  some  of  the 
Walkuren  in  the  "Ring."  One  or  two  were  full  of 
ambition  and  thankful  for  the  experience  they  were 
receiving,  while  being  paid.  Some  of  them,  however, 
showed  a  quite  extraordinary  attitude,  not  rare  among 
—265— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

students  of  the  moneyed  class.  The  air  was  filled 
with  their  complaints  at  the  length  of  rehearsals,  at 
the  discomfort  of  the  swings  for  the  Rhinemaidens,  at 
anything  and  everything.  I  was  present  one  day  when 
one  of  them  called  Mr.  Percy  Pitt  aside  and  gravely 
took  him  to  task  for  not  having  the  swings  adjusted 
to  her  comfort — thereby  incidentally  killing  her 
chances  with  the  management,  for  a  beginner  is  be- 
fore anything  a  beginner  in  a  great  Opera  House,  and 
is  supposed  to  find  her  level  and  make  no  fuss  about 
it.  These  girls  constantly  spoke  loftily  of  their  dis- 
pleasure at  the  way  things  were  run.  When  they 
were  offered  an  extension  of  their  contracts,  owing 
to  the  repetitions  of  the  "Ring,"  they  could  hardly  be 
brought  to  consider  signing  on.  I  said  to  them, 
knowing  the  game,  "Girls,  some  day  you  will  be  on 
your  knees  to  get  such  engagements  as  you  now  hold. 
You  have  the  chance  of  singing  difficult  parts  with  a 
great  Master  in  a  great  Opera  House,  and  you  don't 
seem  in  the  least  to  realize  what  that  means." 

I  regret  to  say  my  prophecy  was  nearly  correct,  for 
I  think  only  one,  a  really  serious  girl,  has  prospered 
in  her  career.  The  attitude  one  assumes  to  one's 
operatic  work  in  early  years  is  surely  reflected  later, 
and  the  best  advice  a  student  can  follow  is  that  given 
me  by  Schumann-Heink,  "Sing  everydiing,  no  matter 
what  they  ask  you  to  do." 

—266— 


COVENT  GARDEN  AND— AMERICA 

It  was  very  amusing  to  hear  the  discussions  as  to 
what  the  audience  should  wear.  We  gave  the  per- 
formances more  or  less  on  the  Bayreuth  plan,  begin- 
ning early  and  with  one  unusually  long  pause.  As  it 
was  broad  daylight  at  the  hour  set  for  the  curtain  to 
go  up,  and  as  the  perfect  Londoner  loathes  to  be  about 
after  dark  in  anything  but  evening  dress,  the  problem 
bothered  many.  Besides,  evening  dress  is  de  rigueur 
at  Covent  Garden.  Some  rushed  home  in  the  longest 
pause  to  dress  and  dine;  some  frankly  omitted  the 
first  acts  and  came  late,  splendidly  be-jewelled;  some 
wore  evening  dresses  and  kept  on  their  evening  coats 
till  the  sun  was  decently  down;  and  then  bared  their 
suitably  naked  shoulders.  Others  were  just  dubby 
and  high-necked,  and  brought  sandwiches  in  their 
pockets,  feeling  the  holier  and  more  Germanly  rev- 
erent in  consequence. 

It  is  a  great  help  to  be  able  to  afford  to  have  some 
one  with  you  in  opera  life.  Home  surroundings  are 
the  most  conducive  to  good  work,  and  it  is  hard  to 
make  a  home  alone;  but  you  do  not  absolutely  need 
any  one,  if  this  is  not  possible.  My  "morals"  were 
never  in  danger — no  "infamous  proposals"  were 
made  to  me  by  agent,  conductor  or  director.  In  my 
first  engagement,  one  or  two  of  the  giddier  members 
of  the  company  had  affairs  with  young  officers — in  no 
—267— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

case  a  flagrant  scandal,  as  with  a  married  man. 
Their  relations  to  each  other  in  the  theatre  were  all 
that  could  be  demanded.  The  most  exaggeratedly 
correct  behaviour  was  exacted  from  me.  One  day  in 
Metz,  for  example,  we  went  for  a  walk  in  the  country 
with  the  lyric  baritone,  a  nice  little  chap,  who  was  a 
great  friend  of  ours.  It  was  a  lovely,  frosty  day  in 
autumn,  and  we  were  walking  fast  through  a  forest 
road,  when  we  passed  a  carriage  with  the  very  prim 
wife  of  an  officer  sitting  in  it.  The  next  day,  an  ac- 
quaintance of  ours  told  us,  as  a  joke,  that  the  same 
woman  had  said  that  afternoon  to  her,  "I  thought  you 
told  me  that  Fraulein  Howard  was  a  lady?"  "So  she 
is,"  said  our  friend.  "Oh,  no,"  said  the  other,  "she 
can't  be.  I  saw  her  and  her  sister  walking  with  one 
of  the  singers  from  the  theatre,  and  they  were  behav- 
ing very  badly."  "What  were  they  doing?"  asked 
our  friend.  "They  were  all  three  holding  on  to  his 
stick!"  said  she,  in  a  horrified  tone! 

I  went  abroad  to  learn  my  business  and  I  learned  it. 
There  is  much  talk  about  it  not  being  necessary  to 
go  abroad  to  prepare  oneself  for  an  operatic  career, 
but  the  time  has  not  yet  come  in  America  when  the 
student  can  find  the  same  opportunity  to  practice,  or 
work  out  071  the  stage  her  beginner's  faults.  In 
Europe  you  can  do  this  in  blissful  semi-obscurity.  I 
hope  and  believe  the  time  will  come  when  a  girl  will 
—268— 


COVENT  GARDEN  AND— AMERICA 

not  have  to  go  through  all  I  went  tlirough  in  order  to 
develop  her  talent,  but  may  do  it  in  her  own  country. 
But  tlie  wonderfulness  of  Europe  for  those  whose  eyes 
are  open  cannot  yet  be  replaced  by  America,  and  a 
real  artist  will  surely  flower  more  perfectly  on  that 
side  of  the  water. 

To  those  who  go  I  can  only  say  that  I  hope  they  may 
have  the  tremendous  advantage  of  fairy  god-parents, 
as  I  had,  and  perhaps  a  sister  Marjorie. 

After  tlie  season  closed  at  Covent  Garden  I  met  the 
manager  of  the  new  Century  Opera,  soon  to  be  opened 
in  New  York.  He  off'ered  me  a  long  contract,  and  I 
finally  decided  to  return  to  America.  I  saw  a  photo- 
graph of  Edward  Kellogg  Baird  in  a  musical  paper 
at  this  time,  and  read  of  his  connection  with  the  en- 
terprise. I  said  to  myself,  "That  is  the  type  of  man 
I  shall  marry — if  I  ever  do  marry." 

I  came  to  the  Century,  met  my  husband,  E.  K.  B., 
and  worked  with  him  for  the  success  of  the  opera, 
which  lay  very  near  our  hearts ;  but  the  war  and  other 
unfortunate  circumstances  proved  too  much  to  over- 
come, and  we  were  forced  to  suspend.  I  finally  at- 
tained the  Metropolitan  Opera,  which  I  find  the  most 
absorbingly  interesting  house  with  which  I  have  ever 
been  connected,  and  which  is  the  greatest  school  of 
all. 

—269— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

REPERTOIRE 

1.  Carmen In  French,  German,  Eng- 

lish. 

2.  Amneris    (Aida)   French,  German, 

English,  Italian. 

3.  Azucena    (Trovatore)  Italian,  Ger- 

man, English. 

4.  Fides (Prophete)   French,  Ger-  " 

man. 

5.  Dalila (Samson      et       Dalila) 

French,  German,  Eng- 
lish. 

6.  Martha   (In  Faust)   French,  Ger- 

man, English. 

7.  Siebel (In  Faust)   French,  Ger- 

man, English. 

8.  Maddalena (In    Rigoletto)     Italian, 

German,  English. 

9.  Nancy (In  Marta)   Italian,  Ger- 

man, English. 

10.  Ortrud    (Lohengrin)         German, 

English. 

11.  Lucia    (Cav.  Rus.)  Italian,  Ger- 

man, English. 

12.  Lola    (Cav.  Rus.)  Italian,  Ger- 

man, English. 

13.  Mary (Flieg.  Hollaender)  Ger- 

man. 
—270— 


REPERTOIRE 


14.  Erda (Siegfried). 

15.  Erda (Rheingold). 

16.  Schwertleite    (Walkuere). 

17.  Grimgerde (Walkuere), 

18.  Waltraute (Walkuere). 

19.  Waltraute (Goetterdaemmerung). 

20.  Erste  Norn (Goetterdaemmerung). 

21.  Fricka (Walkuere). 

22.  Flosshilde (Goetterdaemmerung). 

23.  Flosshilde (Rheingold). 

24.  Hexe (Haensel     und     Gretel) 

German,  English. 

25.  Nicklaus (Hoflfman)  German,  Eng- 

lish. 

26.  Valencienne    (Merry  Widow), 

27.  Frederika (Waltzertraum). 

28.  Dritte  Dame (Zauberfloete). 

29.  Oeffentliche  Meinung  .  (Orpheus  in  der  Unter- 

welt). 

30.  Orfeo   (Gluck). 

31.  Molly   (Geisha). 

32.  Georgette    (Gloeckchen), 

33.  Pamela (Fra  Diavolo). 

34.  Graefin (Trompeter). 

35.  Orlofsky (Fledermaus). 

36.  Frau  Reich (Lustige  Weibe). 

37.  Page  . . . , (Salome). 

—271— 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  OPERA  SINGER 

38.  Olga (Dollar  Prinzessin). 

39.  Magdalena    (Meistersingers). 

40.  Graefin (Heilige  Elisabeth)   Ger- 

man, English. 

41.  Martha   (Undine). 

42.  Hedwig (Wilhelm  Tell)  German, 

English. 

43.  Gertrude (Hans  Heiling). 

44.  Marzellina    (Figaro)     Italian,     Ger- 

man. 

45.  Graefin (Wildschuetz). 

46.  Ascanio (Benvenuto  Cellini). 

47.  Jacqueline    (Arzt  wieder  willen)  Ger- 

man, English. 

48.  Gertrude (Romeo  and  Juliet)  Ger- 

man. 

49.  Stephano (Romeo  and  Juliet)  Ger- 

man, English. 

50.  Hexe (Sieben  Schwaben). 

51.  Ulrica (Masken    Ball)     Italian, 

German. 

52.  Hexe (Koenigskinder). 

53.  Cleo    (Kuhreigen). 

54.  Suzuki (Butterfly)  English,  Ital- 

ian, German. 

55.  Magdalena   (Evangelimann). 

—272— 


REPERTOIRE 

56.  Carmela    (Jewels  of  the  Madonna) 

English,   Italian,   Ger- 
man. 

57.  Mother   (Louise) . 

58.  Cieca (Giaconda)  German, 

English,  Italian. 

59.  Nutrice (Boris). 

60.  Blumenmaedchen   ....  (Parsifal). 

61.  Annina   (Rosenkavalier). 

62.  ALbine (Thais). 

63.  Mistress   Benson    .  . .  .(Lakme). 

64.  Margarethe (Weisse  Dame). 

65.  Cypra (Zigeuner  Baron). 

66.  Fattoumah    (Marouf ) . 

67.  Amelfa (Le  Coq  d'Or). 

68.  Mrs.  Everton (Shanewis). 

Etc.,  etc. 

STUDIED    NOT   SUNG 

Brangaene   (Tristan). 

Mutter  Gertrud (Haensel  und  Gretel) 

Etc.,  etc. 

THE   END 


—273-^ 


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